
Wmm 







Book_. 



/ 



ABRIDGMENT 



OF & O 



ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 



BY THE HONORABLE 



HENRY HOME OF KAMES. 



EDITED 

BY JOHN FROST, A. M. 



TOUKTH EDITION. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
HASWELL, BARRINGTON & HASWELL, 

293 MARKET STBEET. 

NEW ORLEANS: ALEXANDER TO WAR, 



183 9. 



TNzi 
-/(as 

IV 3 f 



Eastern District of Pennsylvania, to wit: 
****** BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the twenty- second day of 
* T Q * O ctoDer » in the fifty-fifth year of the Independence of the United 
t * States of America, A. D. 1830, Towar, J. & D. M. Hogan, of 
****** the said District, have deposited in this office the title of a Book, 
the right whereof they claim as Proprietors, in the words following, to wit : 

"An Abridgment of Elements of Criticism. By the Honorable Henry Home of 
Karnes. Edited by John Frost, A. M." 

In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled, 
4i An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, 
charts and books to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times 
therein mentioned." And also to the Act entitled, "An Act supplementary to 
an Act, entitled, 4 An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the 
copies of maps, charts and books to the authors and proprietors of such co- 
pies, during the times therein mentioned,' and extending the benefits thereof 
to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical and other prints." 
D. CALDWELL, Clerk of the 

Eastern District of Pennsylvania, 



ADVERTISEMENT 



THE AMERICAN EDITOR. 



In preparing the present abridgment of Lord 
Karnes's Elements of Criticism for publication, 
free use has been made of Jamieson's abridg- 
ment, published in London in 1823. It has been 
found necessary, however, to deviate from his 
plan in several particulars. 

The size of the book has been considerably- 
reduced, by omitting portions of which the prac- 
tical utility was not sufficiently apparent to jus- 
tify their being retained in a work intended for 
general use. 

All quotations of which the delicacy was in 
the slightest degree questionable, have been omit- 
ted, as also quotations in the ancient and foreign 
languages. 

Certain of the terms used by Lord Karnes in 
explaining the passions and emotions, have been 
altered with reference to the advanced state of 
intellectual philosophy* 



IV ADVERTISEMENT. 

Questions have been attached to the whole 
work, with a view to direct the attention of the 
student to the leading principles and their illus- 
trations. Some instructers, of course, will dis- 
pense with these in examining their pupils, and 
question them, in their own way, on the text: but 
it is presumed that the value of the work will not 
be diminished, even for these instructers, by the 
addition of the questions. 

The mode, in which the examples are to be 
recited, and their fitness pointed out, by the 
pupil, must of course be left to the judgment of 
the instructer. 

The Editor indulges the hope, that the present 
attempt to bring a standard work of criticism 
within reach of the inmates of our common 
schools and academies, may meet with the ap- 
probation of those of his fellow-citizens who feel 
interested in the important subject of general 
education. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

Chap. 1. Association of Ideas. 11 

2. Emotions and passions 16 

Part 1. Causes unfolded of the Emotions and Passions: 
Sect. i. Difference between Emotion and Passion. — 
Causes that are the most common and the most 
general. — Passion considered as productive of 

Action ib. 

2. Power of Sounds to raise Emotions and Passions 20 

3. Causes of the Emotions of Joy and Sorrow 21 

4. Sympathetic Emotion of Virtue, and its Cause. . 22 

5. In many instances one Emotion is productive of 

another. — The same of Passions 23 

6. Causes of the Passions of Fear and Anger 25 

7. Emotions caused by Fiction 27 

Part 2. Emotions and Passions as pleasant and painful, 

agreeable and disagreeable. — Modification of 

these Qualities 31 

3. Interrupted Existence of Emotions and Passions. 

— Their Growth and Decay 36 

4. Coexistent Emotions and Passions 40 

5. Influence of Passions with respect to our Percep- 

tions, Opinions, and Belief 42 

6. Resemblance of Emotions to their causes 45 

7. Final Causes of the more frequent Emotions and 

Passions 46 

Chap. 3. Beauty 50 

4. Grandeur and Sublimity 55 

5. Motion and Force 64 

6. Novelty, and the unexpected appearance of ob- 

jects 67 

7. Risible Objects 71 

8. Resemblance and Dissimilitude 72 

9. Uniformity and Variety 76 

10. Congruity and Propriety 80 

1 1. Dignity and Grace 84 

a 2 



Chap. 


12. 




13. 




14. 




15. 




16. 




17. 




18. 


Sect 


, 1. 



VI CONTENTS. 

Page 

Ridicule 87 

Wit 92 

Custom and Habit 99 

External Signs of Emotions and Passions 103 

Sentiments 105 

Language of Passion. 123 

Beauty of Language 133 

Beauty of Language with respect to Sound ib. 

2. Beauty of Language with respect to Significa- 

t tion 134 

3. Beauty of Language from a resemblance between 

Sound and Signification 145 

4. Versification 147 

Chap. 19. Comparisons 161 

20. Figures 181 

Sect. 1. Personification. 182 

2. Apostrophe 196 

3. Hyperbole 198 

4. The Means or Instrument conceived to be the 

Agent 201 

5. A Figure, which, among relative objects, extends 

the Properties of one to another 202 

6. Metaphor and Allegory 206 

7. Figure of Speech 218 

Chap. 21. Narration and Description 222 

22. Epic and Dramatic Composition 242 

23. The Three Unities 265 

24. Gardening and Architecture . - 275 

25. Standard of Taste --.-. .- 295 



INTRODUCTION. 



The design of the present undertaking is, to examine the sen- 
sitive branch of human nature, to trace the objects that are natu- 
rally agreeable, as well as those that are naturally disagreeable ; 
and by these means to discover, if we can, what are the genuine 
principles of the fine arts. The man who aspires to be a critic 
in these arts, must pierce still deeper : he must acquire a clear 
perception of what objects are lofty, what low, what proper or 
improper, what manly, and what mean or trivial. Hence a foun- 
dation for reasoning upon the taste of any individual, and for 
passing sentence upon it. Where it is conformable to principles, 
we can pronounce with certainty that it is correct ; otherwise, 
that it is incorrect, and perhaps whimsical. Thus the fine arts, 
like morals, become a rational science ; and, like morals, may be 
cultivated to a high degree of refinement. 

Manifold are the advantages of criticism, when thus studied as 
a rational science. In the first place, a thorough acquaintance 
with the principles of the fine arts, redoubles the pleasure we 
derive from them. To the man who resigns himself entirely to 
sentiment or feeling, without interposing any sort of judgment, 
poetry, music and painting, are mere pastime : in the prime of life, 
indeed, they are delightful, being supported by the force of novelty 
and the heat of imagination : but in time they lose their relish, 
and are generally neglected in the maturity of life, which dis- 
poses to more serious and more important occupations. To those 
who deal in criticism as a regular science, governed by just prin- 
ciples, and giving scope to judgment as well as to fancy, the fine 
arts are a favorite entertainment; and in old age they maintain that 
relish which they produce in the morning of life. 

In the next place, a philosophic inquiry into the principles of 
the fine arts, inures the reflecting mind to the most enticing sort 
of logic : the practice of reasoning upon subjects so agreeable, 
tends to a habit ; and a habit, strengthening the reasoning facul- 
ties, prepares the mind for entering into subjects more intricate 
and abstract. To have, in that respect, a just conception of the 
importance of criticism, we need but reflect upon the common 
method of education ; which, after some years spent in acquiring 
languages, hurries us, without the least preparatory discipline, 



Vlll INTRODUCTIOiV. 

into the most profound philosophy. A more effectual method to 
alienate the tender mind from abstract science, is beyond the reach 
of invention : and accordingly, with respect to such speculations, 
Jhe bulk of our youth contract a sort of hobgoblin terror, which 
is seldom if ever subdued. Those who apply to the arts, are 
trained in a very different manner : they are led, step by step, 
from the easier parts of the operation, to what are more difficult ; 
and are not permitted to make a new motion till they are per- 
fected in those which go before. Thus the science of criticism 
may be considered as a middle link, connecting the different part3 
of education into a regular chain. This science furnishes an in- 
viting opportunity to exercise the judgment : we delight to reason 
upon subjects that are equally pleasant and familiar: we proceed 
gradually from the simpler to the more involved cases : and in 
a due course of discipline, custom, which improves all our facul- 
ties, bestows acuteness on that of reason, sufficient to unravel all 
the intricacies of philosophy. 

Nor ought it to be overlooked, that the reasonings employed on 
the fine arts, are of the same kind with those which regulate our 
conduct. Mathematical and metaphysical reasonings have no 
tendency to improve social intercourse ; nor are they applicable 
to the common affairs of life : but a just taste of the fine arts, de- 
rived from rational principles, furnishes elegant subjects for con- 
versation, and prepares us for acting in the social state with dig- 
nity and propriety. 

The science of rational criticism tends to improve the heart no 
less than the understanding. It tends, in the first place, to mode- 
rate the selfish affections : by sweetening and harmonizing the 
temper, it is a strong antidote to the turbulence of passion and 
violence of pursuit : it procures to a man so much mental enjoy- 
ment, that in order to be occupied, he is not tempted to deliver 
up his youth to hunting, gaming, drinking ; nor his middle age 
to ambition ; nor his old age to avarice. Pride and envy, two 
disgustful passions, find in the constitution no enemy more formi- 
dable than a delicate and discerning taste : the man upon whom 
nature and culture have bestowed this blessing, feels great de- 
light in the virtuous dispositions and actions of others : he loves 
to cherish them, and to publish them to the world : faults and 
failings, it is true, are to him not less obvious ; but these he 
avoids, or removes out of sight, because they give him pain. On 
the other hand, a man void of taste, upon whom even striking 



INTRODUCTION". IS 

beauties make but a feint impression, indulges pride or envy with- 
out control, and loves to brood over errors and blemishes ; in a 
word, there are other passions, that, upon occasion, may disturb the 
peace of society more than those mentioned ; but not another pas- 
sion is so unwearied an antagonist to the sweets of social inter- 
course : pride and envy put a man perpetually in opposition to 
others, and dispose him to relish bad more than good qualities, 
even in a companion. How different that disposition of mind, 
where every virtue in a companion or neighbor, is, by refinement 
of taste, set in its strongest light, and defects or blemishes natural 
to all are suppressed, or kept out of view 1 ? 

In the next place, delicacy of taste tends not less to invigorate 
the social affections, than to moderate those that are selfish. To 
be convinced of that tendency, we need only reflect that delicacy 
of taste necessarily heightens our feeling of pain and pleasure ; 
and of course our sympathy, which is the capital branch of every 
social passion. Sympathy invites a communication of joys and 
sorrows, hopes and fears : such exercise, soothing and satisfactory 
in itself, is necessarily productive of mutual good-will and affection. 

One other advantage of criticism is reserved to the last place, 
being of all the most important ; which is, that it is a great sup- 
port to morality. I insist on it with entire satisfaction, that no 
occupation attaches a man more to his duty, than that of culti- 
vating a taste in the fine arts: a just relish for what is beautiful, 
proper, elegant, and ornamental, in writing or painting, in archi- 
tecture or gardening, is a fine preparation for the same just relisn 
of these qualities in character and behavior. To the man who 
has acquired a taste so acute and accomplished, every action, 
wrong or improper, must be highly disgustful : if, in any instance, 
the overbearing power of passion sway him from his duty, he re- 
turns to it with a doubled resolution never to be swayed a second 
time : he has now an additional motive to virtue, a conviction de- 
rived from experience, that happiness depends on regularity and 
order, and that disregard to justice or propriety never fails to be 
punished with shame and remorse. 

With respect to the present undertaking, it is not the author's 
intention to compose a regular treatise upon each of the fine arts ; 
but only in general to exhibit their fundamental principles, drawn 
from human nature, the true source of criticism. The fine arts 
are intended to entertain us, by making pleasant impressions; and, 



X INTRODUCTION. 

oy that circumstance, are distinguished from the useful arts : but 
in order to make pleasant impressions, we ought, as above hinted, 
to know what objects are naturally agreeable, and what naturally 
disagreeable. That subject is here attempted, so far as necessary 
for unfolding the genuine principles of the fine arts ; and the au- 
thor assumes no merit from his performance, but that of evincing, 
perhaps more distinctly than hitherto has been done, that these 
principles, as well as every just rule of criticism, are founded 
upon the sensitive part of our nature. What the author has dis- 
covered or collected upon that subject, he chooses to impart in 
the gay and agreeable form of criticism ; imagining that this 
form will be more relished, and perhaps be not less instructive, 
than a regular and labored disquisition. His plan is, to ascend 
gradually to principles, from facts and experiments ; instead of 
beginning with the former, handled abstractedly, and descending 
to the latter. But though criticism be thus his only declared 
aim, he will not disown, that all along it has been his view to ex- 
plain the nature of man, considered as a sensitive being, capable 
of pleasure and pain : and though he flatters himself with having 
made some progress in that important science, he is however too 
sensible of its extent and difficulty, to undertake it professedly, 
or to avow it as the chief purpose of the present work. 

REVIEW. 

What is the design of this work ? 

What is requisite in order to become a critic in the fine arts ? 

What do the fine arts thus become? 

What is the first advantage which arises from an acquaintance with the 
principles of the fine arts ? 

To whom are the fine arts a favorite entertainment? 

What habit is acquired by philosophic inquiry into the principles of the 
fine arts ? 

liow may the science of criticism be considered ? 

Of what kind are the reasonings employed on the fine arts ? 

What does a just taste for the fine arts furnish ? 

How does the science of criticism tend to improve the heart ? 

To w T hat vices is a discerning taste an enemy ? 

In what does the man of taste delight ? 

What does delicacy of taste invigorate ? 

What is the last and most important advantage of criticism? 

What occupation particularly attaches a man to his duty ? 

What additional motive to virtue has the man of taste ? 

From what are the fundamental principles of criticism drawn ? 

Upon what is every just rule of criticism founded ? 

What is the author's plan ? 

What other object besides the science of criticism has the author kept in 
view ? 



ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 



CHAPTER I. 

Association of Ideas. 



While awake we are conscious of a continued train 
of perceptions passing in our minds. It requires no 
activity to carry on, nor can we at will add an idea to 
this train, which is not regulated by chance. 

The notions by which things are linked have great 
influence in directing the train of thought. The inhe- 
rent properties of external objects are not more re- 
markable than the various relations that connect 
them together. Cause and effect, contiguity in time 
and place, high and low, prior and posterior, resem- 
blance, contrast, and a thousand other relations, con- 
nect things without end. No single object appears 
solitary and devoid of connexion ; some are intimate- 
ly, some slightly connected; some near, others remote. 

The train of thought is chiefly regulated by these 
relations. An external object suggests to the mind 
others with which it is related : thus the train of 
thoughts is composed. Such is the law of succession, 
which must be natural because it governs all human 
things. Sometimes, however, as after a profound 
sleep, an idea arises in the mind without any perceived 
connexion. 

We can attend to some ideas and dismiss others. 
Among objects connected, one suggests many of its re- 
lations; choice is afforded; we can elect one and re- 
ject others. We can insist on what is commonly the 
slighter connexion. Ideas left to their natural course 
are continued through the strictest connexions: the 



12 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

mind extends its view to a son more readily than to a 
servant ; and more readily to a neighbor than to one 
living at a distance. We cannot, however, dissolve the 
train, though we may vary the order. So far our 
power extends ; and it is sufficient for all useful pur- 
poses. 

A subject that accords with the tone of the mind is 
always welcome ; thus, in good spirits a cheerful sub- 
ject will be introduced by the slightest connexion; 
and one that is melancholy, in low spirits: an interest- 
ing subject is recalled from time to time, by any con- 
nexion indifferently strong or weak, as in this finely 
touched relation to a rich cargo at sea : — 

My wind, cooling my broth, 
Would blow me to an ague, when I thought 
What harm a wind too great might do at sea. 
I should not see the sandy hour-glass run, 
But I should think of shallows and of flats, 
And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand 
Vailing her high top lower than her ribs, 
To kiss her burial. Should I go to church. 
And see the holy edifice of stone, 
And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks ? 
Which touching but my gentle vessel's side, 
Would scatter all the spices on the stream, 
Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks ; 
And, in a word, but even now worth this, 
And now worth nothing. 

Merch. of Venice, Act I. Sc. 1. 

In the minds of some persons, thoughts and circum- 
stances crowd upon each other by the slightest con- 
nexions. I ascribe this to a bluntness in the discern- 
ing faculty; and such a person has usually a great 
flow of ideas, because they are introduced by any re- 
lations indifferently. This doctrine is in a lively man- 
ner illustrated by Shakspeare. 

Falstajf. What is the gross sum that I owe thee ? 

Hostess. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and thy 
money too. Thou didst swear to me on a parcel gilt goblet sit- 
ting in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, 
on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the Prince broke thy 
bead for liking his father to a singing man of Windsor, thou didst 
swear to me then, as 1 was washing thy wound, to marry me, and 
juake me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it ? Did not Good- 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 13 

wife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then and call me Gossip 
Quickly ? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar ; telling us she 
had a good dish of prawns ; whereby thou didst desire to eat some ; 
whereby I told thee they were ill Jbr a green wound. And didst 
not thou, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no 
more so familiarity with such poor people, saying that ere long 
they should call me madam ? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid 
me fetch thee thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book oath; 
deny it if thou canst ? 

Second Part, Hen. IV. Act II. Sc. % 

On the other hand, a man of an accurate judgment 
cannot have a flow of ideas ; because the slighter re- ; 
lations, making no figure in his mind, have no power 
to introduce ideas ; thence an accurate judgment is 
not friendly to eloquence. A comprehensive memory 
is seldom connected with a good judgment. 

Wit and judgment are seldom united. Wit joins 
things by distant and fanciful relations, that occur only 
to those who make every relation equally welcome. 
Hence wit is incompatible with a solid judgment. 
Memory and wit are often conjoined; solid judgment 
seldom with either. 

There is order as well as connexion in the succes- 
sion of our ideas. The principle of order governs the 
arrangement of perceptions, ideas and actions. Sheep 
in a fold, trees in a field, may be indifferently survey- 
ed, because they are equal in rank. In things of un- 
equal rank, we descend from the principal subject to 
its accessories ; we enter not into a minute considera- 
tion of constituent parts till the thing be surveyed as 
a whole. Our ideas are governed by the same prin- 
ciple. 

The principle of order is conspicuous with regard 
to natural objects, as bodies in motion; the mind falls 
with a heavy body, descends with a river, rises with 
smoke. In tracing a family, we begin with the found- 
er; musing on an oak, we begin at the trunk and 
mount to the branches. In historical facts we proceed 
in the order of time, and through the chain of causes 
and effects. 

In science we proceed from effects to causes ; from 

B 



14 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

particular propositions to general ones. In an histori- 
cal chain every event is particular ; there is nothing 
to bias the mind from the order of nature. In science, 
many experiments come under one cause ; many 
causes come under one more general. From particu- 
lar effects to general causes, we feel an expansion of 
mind, more pleasing than what arises from following 
the order of nature. These observations furnish ma- 
terials for instituting a comparison between the syn- 
thetic and analytic methods of reasoning. The syn- 
thetic, descending from principles to consequences, is 
more agreeable to the strictness of order; in the 
analytic we feel the pleasure of mounting upwards, 
which is very agreeable to the imagination. 

We are framed by nature to relish order and con- 
nexion ; and the influence of order greatly sways the 
mind of man. Grandeur makes a deep impression, 
and inclines us to proceed from small to great. But 
order prevails over that tendency, and affords pleasure 
as well as facility in passing from a whole to its parts, 
from a subject to its ornaments. Elevation touches 
the mind, which, in rising to elevated objects, derives 
pleasure. The course of nature has a greater influ- 
ence than elevation; hence the pleasure of falling 
with rain and descending with a river prevails over 
that of mounting upward. The beauty of smoke as- 
cending in a calm morning is delightful, because the 
course of nature is joined with elevation. 

Every work of art conformable to the natural course 
of our ideas is so far agreeable ; every work of art 
that reverses that order is so far disagreeable. In 
every such work, orderly arrangement and mutual 
connexion are requisite. As these prevail, the com- 
position pleases us. Homer is defective in order and 
connexion, and Pindar more remarkably. In Horace 
there is no fault more conspicuous than want of con- 
nexion. Of Virgil's Georgics the parts are ill connect- 
ed; the transitions are neither sweet nor easy; as, for 
example, the description of the five zones in Book I. 



ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS. 15 

In the Lutrin, the goddess of Discord is introduced 
without any connexion. The two prefaces of Sallust 
will suit any subject as well as history. 

Episodes in narrative poems demand some degree of 
union, as between principal and accessory. The de- 
scent of ./Eneas into Tartarus is neither necessary nor 
natural, for the principal action is too long suspended. 
The same objection lies against the elaborate descrip- 
tion of Fame in the JEneid. 

New objects introduced in description are made 
more or less welcome in proportion to the degree of 
their connexion with the principal subject. Rela- 
tions make no capital figure in the mind, some being 
transitory, others trivial; they are links that unite 
perceptions and produce connexion of action. An 
original propensity provides for the regular order 
of our actions; and order and connexion introduce 
method in the management of our affairs. For 
without them our conduct would be fluctuating and 
desultory, and we should be constantly at the mercy 
of chance. 

REVIEW. 

Of what are we conscious while awake ? 

What are some of the relations, by which things are connected 
in the mind ? 

What is regulated by these relations ? 

What does an external object suggest ? 

How far does our power over trains of ideas extend ? 

What sort of subject is always welcome ? 

Give examples ? 

What is the course of thoughts and circumstances, crowding 
upon each other in the mind ? 

What illustration is given ? 

Why cannot a man of accurate judgment have a flow of ideas. 

Why is wit incompatible with solid judgment ? 

What in the mind does the principle of order govern ? 

Give examples of this principle with regard to natural objects? 
With respect to science and history ? 

How are the synthetic and analytic methods of reasoning com- 
pared ? 

Give examples of the influence of order on the mind ? 

What works of art are agreeable, and what are disagreeable? 

W r hat are requisite in every such work ? 



16 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Give examples of the violation of this rule ? 

What is the rule concerning episodes? 

Why do relations make no capital figure ? 

Why are order and connexion necessary in our affairs ? 



CHAPTER II. 

Emotions and Passions. 

We give the names of passion and emotion to those 
feelings raised in us by external objects, which have 
addressed the eye or the ear. Hence the connexion 
of emotions and passions with the fine arts, which 
give pleasure to the eye and ear, and never once con- 
descend to gratify any of the inferior senses. We 
shall now delineate that connexion, to ascertain what 
power the fine arts have to raise emotions and passions. 
To those who desire to excel in the fine arts, that 
branch of knowledge is indispensable: without it criti- 
cism is abandoned to chance. The principles of the fine 
arts open a direct avenue to the heart; they disclose 
its desires, motives, and actions. We shall divide the 
subject into several sections, for the sake of perspicuity. 

Part I. 

Causes unfolded of the Emotio?is and Passions. 

Section L — Difference between Emotion and Passion* — 
Causes most general and common. — Passion considered 
as productive of Action. 

No emotion or passion springs up in the mind with- 
out a cause. If I love a person, it is for good qualities 
or good offices; if I have resentment against any one, it 
must be for an injury he has done me ; and I cannot 
pity one who is under no distress of body or of mind. 
These circumstances are not indifferent ; the good 
qualities or good offices that attract my love, are an- 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 17 

tecedently agreeable ; if an injury did not give unea 
siness, it would not occasion resentment against the 
author ; nor would the passion of pity be raised by an 
object in distress, if that object did not give pain. 

We love what is agreeable; we hate what is disa- 
greeable. Certain external objects instantaneously 
give us pleasure or pain ; a gently flowing river, a 
smooth extended plain, a spreading oak, a towering 
hill, are objects of sight that raise pleasant emotions; 
a barren heath, a dirty marsh, a rotten carcass, raise 
painful emotions. Of these emotions, thus produced, 
we inquire for no other cause, but merely the pres- 
ence of the object. And these things raise emotions 
by means of their properties and qualities, as the size, 
force, fluency of a river. 

The internal qualities, power, discernment, wit, 
mildness, sympathy, courage, benevolence, are agreea- 
ble in a high degree, and instantaneously excite plea- 
sant emotions. The opposite qualities, dullness, peev- 
ishness, inhumanity, cowardice, occasion painful emo- 
tions. Graceful motion, genteel behavior, excite plea- 
sant emotions instantaneously. This true character, 
intention, is discovered by reflection. A purse given 
in discharge of a debt excites less pleasure, than if 
given out of charity to relieve a virtuous family in 
want. Actions are qualified by intention, not by the 
event. Human actions are perceived to be right or 
wrong, and that perception qualifies the pleasure or 
pain resulting from them. Emotions also are raised 
in us by the feelings of our fellow-creatures. We 
share the pain of a man in distress ; in joy we partake 
of our neighbor's pleasure. 

The recollection of actions, whether pleasant or 
painful, excites in us correspondent emotions. We re- 
member with pleasure a field laid out with taste, a 
generous action, a gracious speech ; but in this case 
our emotion is fainter than in the former. 

Desire follows some emotions, not others. We desire 
to reward or to imitate a virtuous action ; a beautiful 

B2 



18 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

garden, a magnificent building, may be viewed without 
being desired ; and we long to punish the author of a 
wicked deed. Inanimate objects often raise emotions 
accompanied by desire, as the goods of fortune ; and 
the desire, when immoderate, obtains the name of ava- 
rice. We desire to possess a picture exposed to sale, 
not that in the possession of a prince. 

A passion differs from an emotion in this respect ; 
passion follows desire, and emotion passes away without 
exciting any desire. By desire, we mean that internal 
act influencing the will, and in this respect it differs 
from a wish. 

We proceed now to consider passion with respect to 
its power of producing action. 

No man proceeds to action but by means of an an- 
tecedent desire or impulse ; therefore, where there is 
no desire there is no action. This opens another dis- 
tinction between emotions and passions. The former, 
being without desire, are in their nature quiescent ; 
the desire included in the latter, prompts one to act 
in order to fulfil that desire, in other words, to gratify 
passion. 

The object of passion is that which excites it ; a man 
who injures me becomes the object of my resentment. 
An emotion may have a cause, but not an object. 

The objects of our passions are either general or 
particular ; fame, honor, &c. are general; a house, a 
garden, &c. are particular objects. The passions di- 
rected to general objects are termed appetites; direct- 
ed to particular objects they retain their proper name : 
hence we say, an appetite for glory, the passion of 
friendship. A passion comes after its object has been 
presented, an appetite exists before it ; thus the appe- 
tite of hunger is directed to food. We act calmly 
when moved without violent impulse; we hurry to 
action when inflamed by a strong impulse. 

The actions of brutes are dictated by instinct, with- 
out any view to consequences: man is governed by 
reason ; he acts with deliberation, his actions have an 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 19 

end in view ; yet are there human actions not govern- 
ed by reason, nor done with any view to consequences, 
as in the case of infants, who are mostly governed by 
instinct ; and even of grown persons famishing with 
hunger, without regard to its salutary effects. The 
miser converts means into an end, in accumulating 
wealth without the least view of use. 

An instinctive passion impels us to act blindly with- 
out any view to consequences ; it is deliberative when 
subject to reason, and prompting with a view to an 
end. Desire to bring about an end is termed a motive 
with respect to its power of determining one to act. 
Passion' is the cause of instinctive actions, which have 
no motive, because they are done without any view to 
consequences. 

The gratification of desire is pleasant ; the foresight 
of that pleasure becomes often an additional motive 
for acting. The child eats from the impulse of hun- 
ger ; a young man has the additional pleasure of 
gratification ; an old man, because eating contributes 
to health, has an additional motive. 

These premises determine what passions and actions 
are selfish, and what social. The end ascertains the 
class to which they belong. Where the end in view 
is my own good, they are selfish ; where the end in 
view is the good of another, they are social. Instinc- 
tive actions are neither social nor selfish ; thus eating 
when prompted by nature, is neither social nor selfish ; 
but add the motive that it will contribute to my health, 
and it becomes in a measure selfish. When affection 
moves me to act for my friend's happiness, without re- 
gard to my own gratification, the action is social; it 
my own happiness be consulted, it is partly selfish. 
A just action prompted by the principle of duty, is 
neither social nor selfish ; performed with a view to 
the pleasure of gratification, it is selfish. Love and 
gratitude to a benefactor, are purely social. An ac- 
tion done to gratify my ambitious views, is selfish. 
Resentment from the gratification of passion is selfish ; 



20 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

it is dissocial when revenge aims at the destruction of 
the object. All motives to action do not then spring 
from self-love. Every one, however, has a direct per- 
ception of self. 

Some circumstances make beings or things fit ob- 
jects for desire, others not. A thing beyond our reach 
is not desired. No man desires to walk on the clouds, 
because the desire would be absurd. Where the 
prospect of attainment is faint, the object seldom 
raises strong desire. The beauty of a princess, rarely 
excites love in a peasant. 

REVIEW. 

To what do we give the name of passion or emotion ? 

With what arts are they connected ? 

What are the causes of emotion or passion ? 

Give examples of the causes of agreeable emotions. 

By what means do they raise emotions ? 

Give examples of the causes of painful emotions. 

How are actions qualified ? 

What degree of emotion is raised by recollection ? 

Does desire always follow emotion ? 

How does a passion differ from an emotion ? 

What is always the cause of action? 

What is the object of passion ? 

What are appetites ? 

How are the actions of brutes directed ? Of man ? 

What is the difference between an instinctive and a deliberative 
passion ? 

What is a motive ? 

What is the difference between selfish and social actions and 
passions ? Between these and instinctive ? 

Illustrate this. 

What circumstances are inconsistent with desire ? 

Section II. — The Power of Sounds to raise Emotions and 
Passions. 

Of all external objects, rational beings have the 
most powerful influence in raising emotions and pas- 
sions ; and as speech is the most powerful of all the 
means by which one human being can display itself to 
another, the objects of the eye must yield preference 
to those of the ear. Sounds may raise terror or mirth. 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 21 

Music in conjunction with words has a commanding 
influence over the mind. It commands a variety of 
emotions, and may be made to promote luxury and ef- 
feminacy. But with respect to its refined pleasures, 
music goes hand in hand with gardening and architec- 
ture, her sister arts, in humanizing and polishing the 
mind. 



Section III. — Causes of the Emotions of Joy and Sorrow. 

An emotion accompanied with desire is called a pas- 
sion ; when the desire is fulfilled, the passion is grati- 
fied ; the gratification is pleasant, and affects us with 
joy. The exception is, a man stung with remorse, who 
desires to chastise and punish himself. The joy of 
gratification is called an emotion, because it makes us 
happy in our present situation ; on the contrary, sor- 
row is the result of an event opposite to what we de- 
sired. 

An event fortunate or unfortunate, that falls out by 
accident, and concerns us or our connexions, gives us 
joy or sorrow, according to its result. Joy arises to a 
great height upon the removal of any violent distress 
of mind or body ; in no situation does sorrow rise to a 
greater height than upon the removal of what makes 
us happy. The sensibility of our nature accounts for 
these effects. The principle of contrast is another 
cause ; joy arising upon the removal of pain is in- 
creased by contrast, when we reflect upon our former 
distress ; an emotion of sorrow, upon being deprived 
of any good, is increased by contrast, when we reflect 
upon our former happiness. 

Jqffier. There 's not a wretch who lives on common charity 

But 's happier than me. For I have known 

The luscious sweets of plenty ; every night 

Have slept with soft content about my head, 

And never waked but to a joyful morning. 

Yet now must fall like a full ear of corn, 

Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet 's wither'd in the ripening. 

Venice Preserved. — Act I. Sc. 1. 



22 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Section IV. — Sympathetic Emotion of Virtue, and its 

Cause. 

A signal act of gratitude produces in the spectator 
or reader, love or esteem for the author, and a desire 
to perform acts of gratitude, without reference to any 
one object. In this state the mind, wonderfully bent 
upon an object, neglects no opportunity to vent itself. 
In such a state, favors are returned double. 

A courageous action produces in the spectator the 
passion of admiration directed to the author, and also 
a separate feeling, which may be called an emotion of 
courage, because when under its influence, he is con- 
scious of boldness and intrepidity, and longs for proper 
objects upon which to exert this emotion. 

So full of valor, that they smote the air 
For breathing in their faces. 

Tempest. — Act IV. Sc. l v 

The emotions raised by martial music are all of 
this nature : they have no object; so also the grief or 
pity raised by melancholy music is without an object. 
In this consists also the extreme delight every one has 
in the histories of conquerors and heroes. 

This singular feeling we term the sympathetic emo- 
tion of virtue : it resembles the appetites of nature, 
hunger, thirst, animal love, and in no case is the mind 
more solicitous for a proper object, than when under 
the influence of any of these appetites. This feeling 
is raised in the mind only by virtuous actions. No 
man has a propensity to vice as such ; a wicked deed 
disgusts us ; and this abhorrence is a strong antidote 
against vice, as long as any impression remains of 
the wicked action. This emotion bestows upon good 
example the utmost influence by prompting us to 
imitate what we admire ; and every exercise of virtue, 
mental or external, leads to habit. A disposition of 
the mind, like a limb of the body, becomes stronger 
by exercise. Every person may therefore acquire a 
settled habit of virtue. Intercourse with men of 
worth, histories of generous and disinterested actions, 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 23 

and frequent meditation upon them, keep the sympa- 
thetic emotion in constant exercise, which, by degrees, 
introduces a habit and confirms the authority of virtue. 
With respect to education in particular, what a spa- 
cious and commodious avenue is here opened to the 
heart of a young person ! 

REVIEW. 

What are the uses of music ? 

What kind of events afford the greatest joy ? The greatest sor- 
row ? 

What are the causes of these effects ? 

Give an example? 

Describe the effect of an act of gratitude? Of courage? Of 
martial music ? 

What is this feeling called ? How is it raised ? What are its 
effects ? 

How may "a settled habit of virtue be acquired ? 

Section V. — In many instances one Emotion is productive 
of another. The same of Passions. 

The relations by which things are connected have 
a remarkable influence in the production of emotions 
and passions. An agreeable object makes every thing 
connected with it appear agreeable. The mind, gliding 
sweetly and easily through related objects, carries 
along the agreeable properties it meets in its passage, 
and bestows them on the present object, which thereby 
appears more agreeable than when considered apart. 
-This propensity is sometimes so vigorous as to convert 
defects into properties. The wry neck of Alexander 
was imitated by his courtiers as a real beauty, without 
intention to flatter. So did the satellites of Hotspur ; 
for which see what the Lady Piercy saith of her lord. 

The same communication of passion obtains in the 
relation of principal and accessory. Pride, of which 
self is the object, expands itself upon a house, a 
garden, servants, equipage, and every accessory. A 
lover addresses the glove belonging to his mistress as a 
Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine. 



24 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Veneration for relics has the same natural founda- 
tion. A temple is in a proper sense an accessory to 
the deity to which it is dedicated. Diana is chaste — 
so is her temple, and the very icicle which hangs on it. 

The noble sister of Publicola, 
The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle 
That 's curded by the frost from purest snow, 
And hangs on Dian's temple. 

Coriolanus. — Act V. Sc. 3. 

The respect and esteem which the great, powerful, 
and opulent command, give currency to what is called 
the fashion, in dress, manners, connexions, and taste. 
By the same easiness of communication, every bad 
quality of an enemy is spread to all its connexions^ 
Thus the house in which Ravaillac was born was 
rased to the ground ; the Swiss suffer no peacocks to 
live, because the Duke of Austria, their ancient enemy, 
wears a peacock's tail in his crest. Even the bearer 
of bad tidings, because an object of aversion, cannot 
escape : — 

Fellow, begone ; I cannot brook thy sight, 
This news hath made thee a most ugly man. 

King John. — Act III* Sc. 1. 

Yet the first messenger of unwelcome news 
Hath but a losing office ; and his tongue 
Sounds ever after, as a sullen bell 
Remember'd, tolling a departed friend. 

Second Part, Henry IV. — Act I. Sc. 1. 

The object, however, from which such properties 
are borrowed, must be such as to warm the mind and 
inflame the imagination. But these emotions are sec- 
ondary, being occasioned by antecedent, and primary 
emotions and passions. A secondary emotion may readily 
swell into a passion from the accessory object, provided 
the accessory be a proper object for desire. Thus it 
often happens that one passion is productive of an- 
other. Self-love generates love to children. Remorse 
for betraying a friend or murdering an enemy in cold 
blood, makes a man hate himself; in that state, he is 
not conscious of affection to his children, but rather 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 25 

of disgust or ill-will. The hatred he has for himself, 
is expanded upon his children. 

Self-love is expanded to blood relations, and the pas- 
sion communicates itself in proportion to the degree 
of connexion. Self-love extends even to things inani- 
mate, the property a man calls his own. 

Friendship, less vigorous than self-love, is less apt to 
communicate itself to the friend's children or other 
relations. There are, however, instances of this. 

The more slight and transitory relations are not fa- 
vorable to the communication of passions. Sudden and 
violent anger is an exception. 

The sense of order influences this passion in nature 
to descend from parents to children by an easy transi- 
tion ; the ascent to a parent, contrary to that order, 
makes the transition more difficult. Gratitude to a 
benefactor is readily extended to his children ; but not 
so readily to his parents. 

REVIEW. 

Do the relations of things produce passions similar to those pro- 
duced by the things themselves ? 

Give examples. 

What is the origin of fashion ? 

Give examples of the bad qualities of an enemy spread to its 
connexions. 

What are the emotions caused by relations called ? 

Give examples of one passion producing another. 

What sort of relations are most favorable to the communication 
of passions ? 

Section VI. — Causes of the Passions of Fear and Anger. 

Fear and anger, to answer the purposes of nature, ope- 
rate sometimes instinctively, sometimes deliberative- 
ly, according to circumstances. Deliberatively, where 
reason suggests means to avoid a threatened danger. 
If a man be injured, the first thing he thinks of is what 
revenge he shall take, and what means he shall em- 
ploy. These particulars are no less obvious than natu- 
ral; but, as the passions of fear and anger, in their 

C 



26 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

instinctive state, are less familiar to us, it may be ac- 
ceptable to the reader to have them accurately de- 
lineated. I begin with fear. 

Self-preservation is not wholly left to the conduct 
of reason. Nature acts here with her usual foresight. 
Fear and anger, moving us to act instinctively, afford 
security when the slower operations of deliberate rea- 
son would be too late ; we avoid danger by the impulse 
of fear, before reflection places us in safety. If my 
horse stumble, my hands and knees are instantly at 
work to prevent him from falling. 

Fear provides for self-preservation by flying from 
harm ; anger by repelling it. Where anger impels one 
suddenly to return a blow, the passion is instinctive ; 
and it is chiefly in such a case that it acts blindly and 
ungovernably. Instinctive anger is frequently raised 
by pain, and a man thus beforehand disposed to anger, 
is not nice in giving a blow if he be touched on a ten- 
der part. The child is violently excited to crush to 
atoms the stone it has hit its toe against. 

An instance of blind and absurd anger is finely illus- 
trated in No. 439 of the Spectator, in a story, the 
dramatis persona of which are, a cardinal and a spy 
retained in pay for intelligence. The cardinal is repre- 
sented as minuting down the particulars. The spy 
begins with a low voice, " Such an one, the advocate, 
whispered to one of his friends within my hearing, that 
your eminence was a very great poltroon;" and after 
having given his patron time to take it down, adds, 
" That another called him a mercenary rascal in a 
public conversation." The cardinal replies, "Very 
well," and bids him go on. The spy proceeds, and loads 
him with reports of the same nature, till the cardinal 
rises in a fury, calls him an impudent scoundrel, and 
kicks him out of the room. 

In these examples anger appears irrational and ab 
surd; but it was given us to prevent or repel injuries 
and it is not wonderful to find it exerted irregularly 
and capriciously : but all the harm that can be done 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 27 

by the passion in that state is instantaneous ; for the 
shortest delay sets all to rights; and circumstances are 
seldom so unlucky as to put it in the power of a pas- 
sionate man to do much harm in an instant. 

Social passions, like the selfish, sometimes drop their 
character, and become instinctive. It is not unusual 
to find anger and fear respecting others so excessive, 
as to operate blindly and impetuously, precisely as 
where they are selfish. 

Section VII. — Emotions caused by Fiction. 

Hitherto fiction has not been assigned as the cause 
of any emotion or passion ; but passions are moved by 
fiction as well as by truth. 

The objects of our external senses really exist in 
the way and manner we perceive, and nature deter- 
mines us to rely on the veracity of our senses ; and the 
power of memory recalls objects to the mind with dif- 
ferent degrees of accuracy. Interesting objects make 
a strong impression. For example, I saw yesterday a 
beautiful woman in tears for the loss of an only child, 
and was greatly moved w T ith her distress : not satisfied 
with a slight recollection or bare remembrance, I pon- 
der upon the melancholy scene : conceiving myself to 
be in the place where I was an eye-witness, every cir- 
cumstance appears to me as at first : I think I see the 
woman in tears, and hear her moans. Hence it may 
be justly said, that in a complete idea of memory there 
is no past nor future: a thing recalled to the mind with 
the accuracy I have been describing, is perceived as 
in our view, and consequently as existing at present. 
Past time makes part of an incomplete idea only : I 
remember or reflect, that some years ago I was at Ox- 
ford, and saw the first stone laid of the RatclifF library. 
This act of the mind is called conception. The thing 
exists, and I am a spectator of its existence, and I have 
a perception of the object similar to what a real spec- 
tator has. 

Many rules of criticism depend on conception. To 



28 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. 

distinguish conception from reflective remembrance, 1 
give the following illustration : when I think of an 
event as past, without forming any image, it is barely 
reflecting or remembering that I was an eye-witness ; 
but when I recall the event so distinctly as to form a 
complete image of it, I perceive it as passing in my 
presence ; and this perception is an act of intuition, 
into which reflection enters not, more than into an act 
of sight. 

Let us now consider the idea of a thing we never 
saw, raised in us by speech, writing, or painting. That 
idea, with respect to the present subject, is of the same 
nature with an idea of memory, being either complete 
or incomplete. Lively and accurate description raises 
in us ideas no less distinct than if we had been origin- 
ally spectators. Slight and superficial narrative pro- 
duces faint and incomplete ideas, of which conception 
makes no part. Past time enters into this idea, as into 
an incomplete idea of memory; as when we have spread 
out before our minds a lively and beautiful description 
of the battle of Zama, in which Scipio overcame Han- 
nibal. 

Ideas, both of memory and speech, produce emotions 
similar to those produced by an immediate view of the 
object ; only fainter, in proportion as an idea is fainter 
than an original perception. Conception supplies the 
want of real presence ; and in idea we perceive per- 
sons acting and suffering precisely as in an original 
survey : hence the pleasure of a reverie, the objects 
of which we conceive to be actually existing in our 
presence, precisely as if we were eye-witnesses of 
them. If then, in reading, conception be the means 
by which our passions are moved, it makes no differ- 
ence whether the subject be fable or true history. 
When the conception is complete, the mind finds no 
leisure for reflection. The meeting of Hector and An- 
dromache, the passionate scenes in Lear, give an im- 
pression of reality no less distinct than that given fey 
Tacitus of the death of Otho. 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 29 

Even genuine history has no command over our pas- 
sions but by conception only : in this respect it stands 
upon the same footing with fable. History reaches 
not the heart when we indulge in reflection upon the 
facts ; for if reflection be laid aside, it stands upon the 
same footing with fable. What effect either may have 
to raise sympathy depends on the vivacity of the ideas 
they raise, and fable is thence generally more success- 
ful than history. Of all the means for making an im- 
pression of conception, theatrical representation is the 
most powerful. Words, independent of actiori, have 
the same power in a less degree ; for a tragedy will 
extort tears in private. This power belongs also to 
painting : a good historical painting makes a deeper 
impression than words can, but still inferior to theatri- 
cal action. Painting possesses a middle place between 
reading and acting. Painting, however, cannot raise 
our passions like words : a painting is confined to a 
single instant, its impression is instantaneous ; passions 
require a succession of impressions ; hence the effect 
of reading and acting, which reiterate impressions 
without end. The machinery of imaginary beings in 
an epic poem amuses by its novelty and singularity ; 
but they never move the sympathetic passions, be- 
cause they cannot impose on the mind by any percep- 
tion of reality. A burlesque poem may employ ma- 
chinery with success, because it is not the aim of that 
poem to raise our sympathy. The more extravagant 
the fiction, the better. 

Having assigned the means by which fiction com- 
mands our passions, our task is accomplished by assign- 
ing the final cause. Fiction, by means of language, 
has the command of our sympathy for the good of 
others. By the same means our sympathy may also 
be raised for our own good. Examples both of virtue 
and vice raise virtuous emotions; which becoming 
stronger by exercise, tend to make us virtuous by habit, 
as well as by principle. Examples confined to real 

C2 



30 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

events are not so frequent as without other means to 
produce a habit of virtue. We are formed in such a 
manner as to be susceptible of the same improvement 
from fable that we receive from genuine history. By 
that contrivance examples to improve us in virtue may 
be multiplied without end. No other sort of discipline 
contributes more to make virtue habitual, and no other 
sort is so agreeable in the application. I add another 
final cause with thorough satisfaction; because it shows 
that the Author of our nature is not less kindly provi- 
dent for the happiness of his creatures than for the 
regularity of their conduct : the power that fiction has 
over the mind, affords an endless variety of refined amuse- 
ment always at hand to employ a vacant hour : such 
amusements are a fine resource in solitude ; and, by 
cheering and sweetening the mind, contribute greatly 
to social happiness. 

REVIEW. 

How do fear and anger operate ? 
Give examples of their deliberative action. 
Give an example of the instinctive action of fear — of anger. 
How is instinctive anger frequently raised ? 
Give the instance of blind and absurd anger from the Spectator. 
For what purpose was anger given us ? 
What prevents mischief arising from absurd passion. 
Are passions moved by fiction ? 

Give examples of past scenes made present to the mind ? 
What is this act of the mind called ? 

How is conception distinguished from reflective remembrance ? 
What kind of ideas are raised in us by lively description ? 
By slight and superficial narrative ? 
Of what does conception supply the want ? How ? 
Does fiction impress us as strongly as history ? Why ? 
Give examples. 

How does history command the passions ? 

What is the most powerful means of making an impression by 
conception ? 
What else possesses this power ? 

Why is painting less effective in raising the passions than words ? 
Give examples. 
W hat are the uses of fiction ? 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 31 



Part II. 

Emotions and Passions, as pleasant and painful. Agreeable 
and disagreeable modifications of these Qualities. 

It will naturally occur at first, that a discourse upon 
the passions ought to commence with explaining the 
qualities now mentioned : hut upon trial, I found that 
this explanation could not he made distinctly, till the 
difference should first be ascertained between an emo- 
tion and a passion, and their causes unfolded. 

Great obscurity may be observed among writers 
with regard to the present point ; particularly, no care 
is taken to distinguish agreeable from pleasant, disa- 
greeable from painful ; or rather these terms are deem- 
ed synonymous. This is an error not at all venial in 
the science of ethics. Some painful passions, we af- 
firm, are agreeable; some pleasant passions are dis- 
agreeable. 

Viewing a fine garden, I perceive it to be beautiful 
or agreeable as belonging to the object, or one of its 
qualities. When I turn my attention from the garden 
to what passes in my mind, I am conscious of a plea- 
sant emotion, of which the garden is the cause. This 
pleasure is a quality of the emotion produced, not of 
the garden. A rotten carcass is disagreeable, and 
raises a painful emotion ; the disagreeableness is a 
quality of the object, the pain the quality of the emo- 
tion. Agreeable and disagreeable are qualities of the 
objects we perceive ; pleasant and painful are quali- 
ties of the emotions we feel : the former belongs to 
the objects, the latter exist within us. 

But a passion or emotion, beside being felt, is fre- 
quently made an object of thought or reflection : we 
examine it ; we inquire into its nature, its cause, and 
its effects. In that view, like other objects, it is 
either agreeable or disagreeable. Hence clearly ap- 
pear the different significations of the terms under 



32 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

consideration, as applied to passion ; when a passion is 
termed pleasant or painful, we refer to the actual 
feeling ; when termed agreeable or disagreeable, we re- 
fer to it as an object of thought or reflection: a pas- 
sion is pleasant or painful to the person in whom it 
exists ; it is agreeable or disagreeable to the person 
who makes it a subject of contemplation. 

In the description of emotions and passions, these 
terms do not always coincide : to make which evident, 
we must endeavor to ascertain, first, what passions and 
emotions are pleasant, what painful ; and next, what 
are agreeable, what disagreeable. With respect to 
both, there are general rules, which, if I can trust to 
induction, admit not a single exception. The nature 
of an emotion or passion, as pleasant or painful, de- 
pends entirely on its cause : the emotion produced by 
an agreeable object is invariably pleasant ; and the 
emotion produced by a disagreeable object is invaria- 
bly painful. Thus a lofty oak, a generous action, a 
valuable discovery in art or science, are agreeable 
objects that invariably produce pleasant emotions. A 
treacherous action, an irregular, ill-contrived edifice, 
being disagreeable objects, produce painful emotions. 
Selfish passions are pleasant; for self is always an 
agreeable object, or cause. A social passion directed 
upon an agreeable object is always pleasant ; directed 
upon an object in distress, is painful. Lastly, all dis- 
social passions, such as envy, resentment and malice, 
caused by disagreeable objects, are painful. 

A general rule for the agreeableness or disagreea- 
bleness of emotions and passions is, a sense of a com- 
mon nature in every species of animals, particularly 
our own, and a conviction that this common nature is 
right or perfect, and that individuals ought to be made 
conformable to it. # A passion that deviates from the 
common nature, by being too strong or too weak, is 
wrong and disagreeable ; but as far as conformable to 

* This is explained, Chap. XXV. Standard of Taste 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 33 

common nature, every emotion and passion is per- 
ceived to be right, and thence agreeable. But the 
painful are no less natural, as of grief and pity, and 
therefore they are agreeable and applauded by all the 
world. Another rule more simple and direct for as- 
certaining the agreeableness or disagreeableness of a 
passion as opposed to an emotion, is f derived from the 
desire that accompanies it. If the desire be to per- 
form a right action in order to produce a good effect, 
the passion is agreeable : if the desire be, to do a 
wrong action in order to produce an ill effect, the 
passion is disagreeable. Thus, passions as well as 
actions are governed by the moral sense. These rules 
by the wisdom of providence coincide : a passion that 
is conformable to our common nature must tend to 
good ; and a passion that deviates from our common 
nature must tend to ill. 

A passion that becomes an object of thought, may 
have the effect to produce a passion or emotion in the 
spectator ; for it is natural, that a social being should 
be affected with the passions of others. Passions or 
emotions thus generated, submit, in common with 
others, to the general law above-mentioned, namely, 
that an agreeable object produces a pleasant emotion, 
and a disagreeable object a painful emotion. Thus 
gratitude produces love to the grateful person; malice, 
the painful passion of hatred, to the malicious person. 

We are now prepared for examples of pleasant 
passions that are disagreeable, and of painful passions 
that are agreeable. Self-love, as long as confined 
within just bounds, is a passion both pleasant and 
agreeable: in excess it is disagreeable, though it 
continues to be still pleasant. Our appetites are pre- 
cisely in the same condition. Resentment, on the 
other hand, is, in every stage of the passion, painful ; 
but is not disagreeable unless in excess. Pity is al- 
ways painful, yet always agreeable. Vanity, on the 
contrary, is always pleasant, yet always disagreeable. 
But however distinct those qualities are, they coincide, 



34 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

I acknowledge, in one class of passions: all vicious 
passions tending to the hurt of others, are equally- 
painful and disagreeable. 

We come now to the modifications of these passions 
as respects the science of criticism. The pleasure or 
pain of one passion differs from that of another, as of 
revenge gratified from that of love. In discerning 
different sweets, sours, bitters ; honey is never mista- 
ken for sugar ; and we distinguish smells in flowers 
different and endless. The differences too as to plea 
sant and painful emotions and passions have no limits ; 
though we want acuteness of feeling for the more 
delicate modifications. There is an analogy here be- 
tween our internal and external senses, and with re- 
lation to the fine arts, the qualification most essential 
is termed delicacy of taste. 

Some passions are gross, some refined ; the pleasures 
of external sense are corporeal or gross ; those of the 
eye and ear are felt to be internal, and for that reason 
pure and refined. The social affections are more 
refined than the selfish. Sympathy and humanity are 
universally esteemed the finest temper of mind. A 
savage knows little of social affection : he cannot com- 
pare selfish and social pleasure. The social passions 
rise highest in our esteem. 

There are differences not less remarkable among 
the painful passions. Some are voluntary, some in- 
voluntary: the pain of the gout is an example of the 
latter ; grief, of the former, which in some cases is so 
voluntary as to reject all consolation. One pain 
softens the temper — pity is an instance : one tends to 
render us savage and cruel, which is the case of re- 
venge. I value myself upon sympathy: I hate and 
despise myself for envy. 

Social affections have an advantage over the selfish, 
not only with respect to pleasure, as above explained, 
but also with respect to pain. The pain of an affront, 
the pain of want, the pain of disappointment, and a 
thousand other selfish pains, are excruciating and tor* 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 85 

meriting, and tend to a habit of peevishness and dis- 
content. Social pains have a very different tendency: 
the pain of sympathy, for example, is not only volun- 
tary, but softens my temper, and raises me in my own 
esteem. 

Refined manners, and polite behavior, must not be 
deemed altogether artificial : men, who, inured to the 
sweets of society, cultivate humanity, find an elegant 
pleasure in preferring others, and making them happy, 
of which the proud, the selfish, scarce have a concep- 
tion. 

Ridicule, which chiefly arises from pride, a selfish 
passion, is at best but a gross pleasure ; a people, it is 
true, must have emerged out of barbarity before they 
can have a taste for ridicule ; but it is too rough an 
entertainment for the polished and refined. Cicero 
discovers in Plautus a happy talent for ridicule, and a 
peculiar delicacy of wit; but Horace declares against 
the lowness and roughness of that author's raillery. 
The modifications of high and low will be handled in 
the chapter of> grandeur and sublimity; and the modi- 
fications of dignified and mean, in that of dignity and 
grace. 

REVIEW. 

Ave pleasant and agreeable, painful and disagreeable, respec- 
tively synonymous ? 

What is affirmed in order to prove that they are not ? 

Is the pleasure produced by viewing an agreeable object, a 
quality of the emotion produced, or of the object ? 

How are agreeable and disagreeable distinguished from pleasant 
and painful ?~f 

How are these terms applied to a passion ?+- 

On what does the nature of an emotion or passion depend ? 

Illustrate this. 

What is the general rule for the agreeableness or disagreeable- 
ness of emotions and passions ? 

How is the rule applied ? 

From what is another rule denved ? 

How is this applied ? 

How is the spectator of a passion in another person affected ? 

Give examples. 

Give examples of pleasant passions that are disagreeable, and 
painful ones that are agreeable ? 



36 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

In what do these qualities coincide f 

Do the pleasures or pains arising from the passions differ ? 

Illustrate this. 

What is the most essential qualification with respect to the fine 
arts ? 

What passions are gross, and what refined ? 

Give examples of voluntary and involuntary passions, and their 
effects. 

What advantages have social over selfish passions ? 

How is this illustrated in manners ? 

How with respect to ridicule ? 

Part III. 

Interrupted existence of Emotions and Passions ; their 
growth and decay. 

Did an emotion continue like color or figure, the 
condition of man would be deplorable ; it is wisely or- 
dered that emotions and passions should only subsist 
while their cause is present, and have no independent 
existence. They are thus felt at intervals, and no 
emotion raised by an idea is the same as that raised 
by the sight of the object. A passion is always reck- 
oned the same, as long as it is fixed upon the same ob- 
ject ; thus love and hatred are said to continue for life. 
Many passions are reckoned the same even after a 
change of object, as envy directed to the same person, 
or many persons at once ; pride and malice are exam- 
ples of the same. So much for the identity of pas- 
sions ; we now proceed to examine their growth and 
decay. 

Some emotions are produced in their utmost perfec- 
tion, and have a very short duration, as surprise, won- 
der, terror. Emotions raised by inanimate objects, 
trees, rivers, buildings, arrive at perfection almost in- 
stantaneously ; and they have a long endurance, a sec- 
ond view producing nearly the same pleasure as the 
first. Love, hatred, &c. swell and then decay. Envy, 
malice, pride, scarce ever decay. 

Some passions, such as gratitude and revenge, are 
often exhausted by a single act of gratification : other 



EMOTIOXS AXD PASSIOXS. 37 

passions, such as pride, malice, envy, love, hatred, are 
not so exhausted ; but having a long continuance, de- 
mand frequent gratification. 

With respect to emotions which are quiescent, be- 
cause not productive of desire, their growth and decay 
are easily explained : an emotion caused by an inani- 
mate object, cannot, naturally take longer time to ar- 
rive at maturity than is necessary for a leisurely sur- 
vey : such emotion also must continue long stationary 
without any sensible decay, a second or third view of 
the object being nearly as agreeable as the first : this 
is the case of an emotion produced by a fine prospect, 
an impetuous river, or a towering hill ; while a man 
remains the same, such objects ought to have the same 
effect upon him. Familiarity, however, hath an influ- 
ence here, as it hath everywhere : frequency of view, 
after short intervals especially, weans the mind gradu- 
ally from the object, which at last loses all relish : the 
noblest object in the material world, a clear and serene 
sky, is quite disregarded, unless perhaps after a course 
of bad weather. An emotion raised by human virtues, 
qualities, or actions, may, by reiterated views of the 
object, swell imperceptibly till it become so vigorous 
as to generate desire : in that condition it must be han- 
dled as a passion. 

When nature requires a passion to be sudden, it is 
commonly produced in perfection ; as fear, anger, won- 
der, and surprise. Reiterated impressions made by their 
cause exhaust these passions, instead of inflaming them. 
This will be explained in Chapter VI. 

When a passion has for its foundation an original 
propensity peculiar to some men, it generally comes 
soon to maturity, as pride, envy, malice ; — the propen- 
sity, upon presenting a proper object, is immediately 
inflamed into a passion. 

The growth of love and hatred is slow or quick, ac- 
cording to circumstances. Good qualities in a person 
raise in us a pleasant emotion ; reiterated views swell 
it into a desire of that person's happiness : this desire, 

D 



38 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

freely indulged, works a gradual change internally 
and at last settles into an affection for that person, now 
my friend. Affection thus produced, operates like an 
original propensity. The habit of aversion or hatred 
is brought on in the same manner. 

Passions generally have a tendency to excess, occa- 
sioned by the following means. The mind, affected by 
any passion, is not in a proper state for distinct per- 
ception, nor for cool reflection : it hath always a strong 
bias to the object of an agreeable passion, and a bias 
no less strong against the object of a disagreeable pas- 
sion. The object of love, for example, however indif- 
ferent to others, is to the lover's conviction a paragon; 
and the object of hatred, is vice itself without alloy. 
Hatred, as well as other passions, must run the same 
course. Thus, between a passion and its object there is a 
natural operation, resembling action and reaction in 
physics : a passion acting upon its object, magnifies it 
greatly in appearance ; and this magnified object react- 
ing upon the passion, swells and inflames it mightily. 

The growth of some passions depend often on occa- 
sional circumstances:/ o bstacles to g^a tificalion^never 
{ u i.-jk., faji jo inflame a passio n^; and the mind distressed by 
obstacles becomes impatient for gratification, and con- 
sequently more desirous of it. 

All impediments in fancy's course 
Are motives of mere fancy. 

Shakspeare. 

So much upon the growth of passions ; their continu- 
ance and decay come next under consideration. And, 
first, it is a general law of nature, that things sudden 
in their growth are equally sudden in their decay. 
This is commonly the case of anger. And, with respect 
to wonder and surprise, which also suddenly decay, 
another reason concurs, that their causes are of short 
duration : novelty soon degenerates into familiarity ; 
and the unexpectedness of an object is soon sunk in 
the pleasure that the object affords. Fear, which is a 
passion of greater importance as tending to self-pre- 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 39 

serration, is often instantaneous, and yet is of equal 
duration with its cause ; nay, it frequently subsists after 
the cause is removed. 

In the next place, a passion founded on a peculiar 
propensity, subsists generally for ever ; which is the 
case of pride, envy, and malice : objects are never 
wanting to inflame the propensity into a passion. 

Thirdly, it may be laid down as a general law of 
nature, that every passion ceases upon attaining its 
ultimate end. To explain that law, we must distin- 
guish between a particular and a general end. I call 
a particular end what may be accomplished by a single 
act : a general end, on the contrary, admits acts with- 
out number ; because it cannot be said, that a general 
end is ever fully accomplished while the object of the 
passion subsists. Gratitude and revenge are examples 
of the first kind: the ends they aim at may be accom- 
plished by a single act ; and, when that act is perform- 
ed, the passions are necessarily at an end. Love and 
hatred are examples of the other kind : desire of doing 
good, or of doing mischief to an individual, is a gen- 
eral end, admitting acts without number, and which is 
seldom accomplished. 

Lastly, we are to consider the difference between an 
original propensity, and affection or aversion produced 
by custom. The former adheres too closely to the consti- 
tution ever to be eradicated; hence the passions it gives 
birth to continue during life with no diminution. The 
latter, which owe their birth and increase to time, owe 
their decay to the same cause : affection and aversion 
decay gradually as thej ' grow ; and hatred as well as 
love are extinguished by long absence. In short, man 
with respect to this life is a temporary being : he grows, 
becomes stationary, decays ; and so must all his powers 
and passions. 



40 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 



REVIEW. 

Are emotions permanent? 

How ong does a passion continue the same ? 

What emotions are immediately perfected, and of short dura- 
tion? 

What passions are exhausted by a single act ? 

What passions continue long ? 

How long does an emotion caused by an inanimate object take 
to arrive at maturity ? 

How long does it last? 

Give examples. 

What passions are produced in perfection ? 

What sort of passions come to maturity soon? 

Illustrate the growth of affection. 

By what means have passions a tendency to excess ? 

What is the effect of obstacles ? 

What is the general law with respect to growth and decay ? 

Give examples. 

What kind of passion subsists for ever ? 

When does a passion cease ? 

How are general and particular ends distinguished ? 

Give examples. 

Illustrate the difference between an original propensity and a 
passion or affection produced by custom. 



Part IV. 
Coexistent Emotions and Passions. 

For a thorough knowledge of the human passions 
and emotions, it is not sufficient that they be examined 
singly and separately : as a plurality of them are some- 
times felt at the same instant, the manner of their co- 
existence, and the effects thereby produced, ought also 
to be examined. This subject is extensive ; and it will 
be difficult to trace all the laws that govern its end- 
less variety of cases : if such an undertaking can be 
brought to perfection, it must be by degrees. The fol- 
lowing hints may suffice for a first attempt. 

We begin with emotions raised by different sounds, 
as the simplest case. Two sounds that mix, and, as it 
were, incorporate before they reach the ear, are saia 
to be concordant. That each of the two sounds, even 
after their union, produceth an emotion of its own. 



EMOTIONS AXD PASSIONS. 41 

must be admitted ; but these emotions, like the sounds 
that produce them, mix so intimately, as to be rather 
one complex emotion, than two emotions in conjunc- 
tion. Two sounds that refuse incorporation or mix- 
ture, are said to be discordant ; and when heard at 
the same instant, the emotions produced by them are 
unpleasant in conjunction, however pleasant separately. 

Similar to the emotion raised by mixed sounds, is 
the emotion raised by an object of sight with its sev- 
eral qualities; as a tree with its qualities of color, 
figure, size, &c. The emotion it produces is one com- 
plex emotion. 

In coexistent emotions produced by different objects 
of sight, there cannot be a concordance among them 
like what is perceived in some sounds. 

Emotions are similar when they produce the same 
tone of mind, — cheerful emotions are similar, so are 
melancholy emotions. Dissimilar emotions are pride 
and humility, gaiety and gloominess. 

Emotions perfectly similar, readily combine and 
unite, so as in a manner to become one complex emo- 
tion ; witness the emotions produced by a number of 
flowers in a parterre, or of trees in a wood. Emotions 
that are opposite, or extremely dissimilar, never com- 
bine or unite ; the mind cannot simultaneously take an 
opposite tone ; it cannot at the same instant be both 
joyful and sad, angry and satisfied, proud and humble ; 
dissimilar emotions may succeed each other with ra- 
pidity, but they cannot exist simultaneously. 

Between these two extremes, emotions unite more 
or less, in proportion to the degree of their resem- 
blance, and the degree in which their causes are con- 
nected. Thus the emotions produced by a fine land- 
scape and the singing of birds, being similar in a con- 
siderable degree, readily unite, though their causes 
are little connected. And the same happens where the 
causes are intimately connected, though the emotions 
themselves have little resemblance to each other ; an 
example of which is a mistress in distress, whose beauty 

D2 



42 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

gives pleasure, and her distress pain : These two emo- 
tions, proceeding from different views of the object, 
have very little resemblance to each other ; and yet 
so intimately connected are their causes, as to force 
them into a sort of complex emotion, partly pleasant, 
partly painful. This clearly explains some expres- 
sions common in poetry, as a sweet distress, a pleasant 
pain. 

REVIEW. 

What sounds are concordant ? 

What is their effect ? 

What sort of emotion is produced by objects of sight? 

When are emotions similar ? 

What are dissimilar ? 

What are their respective effects ? 

In what proportion do emotions unite ? 

Give examples. 

Do dissimilar emotions unite? 

What does this fact explain ? 



Part V. 

Influence of Passion with respect to our Perceptions, Opin 
ions and Belief. 

Our actions are influenced by our passions; our 

{mssions influence our perceptions, opinions, and be- 
lief; and our opinions of men and things are generally 
directed by affection. 

An advice given by a man of figure, hath great 
weight ; the same advice from one in a low condition 
is despised or neglected : a man of courage underrates 
danger; and to the indolent the slightest obstacle ap- 
pears insurmountable. 

This doctrine is of great use in logic ; and of still 
greater use in criticism, by serving to explain several 
principles in the fine arts that will be unfolded in the 
course of this work. A few general observations shall 
at present suffice, leaving the subject to be prosecuted 
more particularly afterward, when occasion offers. 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 43 

There is no truth more universally known, than 
that tranquillity and sedateness are the proper state of 
mind for accurate perception and cool deliberation; 
and, for that reason, we never regard the opinion even 
of the wisest man, when we discover prejudice or 
passion behind the curtain. Passion, as observed 
above, hath such influence over^us, as to give a false 
light to all its objects. Agreeable passions prepossess 
the mind in favor of their objects, and disagreeable 
passions, no less against their objects : a woman is all 
perfection in her lover's opinion, while, in the eye of 
rival beauty, she is awkward and disagreeable ; when 
the passion of love is gone, beauty vanishes with it. 

Arguments of a favorite opinion pervert the judg- 
ment; and those that are disagreeable to the mind, 
are passed over as erroneous intruders. 

Anger raised by an accidental stroke upon a tender 
part of the body, is sometimes vented upon the unde- 
signing cause. The passion in that case is absurd ; 
there is no solid gratification in punishing the innocent; 
the mind, prone to justify, as to gratify its passion, de- 
ludes itself into a conviction of the action's being vol- 
untary. The conviction is momentary: the first re- 
flection shows it to be erroneous; and the passion 
vanishes with the conviction. But anger, the most 
violent of all passions, has still greater influence: it 
forces the mind to personify a stock or stone, if it hap- 
pen to occasion bodily pain, and even to believe it a 
voluntary agent,/ in order to be a proper object of re- 
sentment. 

Of such personification, involving a conviction of 
reality, there is one illustrious instance. When the 
first bridge of boats over the Hellespont was destroyed 
by a storm, Xerxes fell into a transport of rage, so 
excessive, that he commanded the sea to be punished 
with 300 stripes, and a pair of fetters to be thrown 
into it, enjoining the following words to be pronounced : 
" O thou salt and bitter water ! thy master hath con- 
demned thee to this punishment for offending him with 



44 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

out cause ; and is resolved to pass over thee in spite of 
thy insolence : with reason all men neglect to sacrifice 
to thee, because thou art both disagreeable and 
treacherous." Herodotus, B. 7. 

Shakspeare exhibits beautiful examples of the irre- 
gular influence of passion in making us believe things 
to be otherwise than they are. King Lear, in his 
distress, personifies the rain, wind, and thunder; and, 
in order to justify his resentment, believes them to be 
taking part with his daughters : 

Lear, Spit, fire ! spout, rain ! 

Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. 
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness ; 
I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children ; 
You owe me no subscription ; why then let fall 
Your horrible pleasure — Here I stand, your slave; 
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man : — 
But yet I call you servile ministers, 
That have with two pernicious daughters join'd 
Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head 
So old and whi te as this. Oh ! oh ! 'tis foul ! 

Act III. Sc. 2. 

King Richard, full of indignation against his favorite 
horse for carrying Bolingbroke, is led into the convic- 
tion of his being rational : 

Groom, O, how it yearn'd my heart, when I beheld 
In London streets, that coronation-day, 
When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary, 
That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, 
That horse that I so carefully have dress'd. 

K. Rich, Rode he on Barbary? tell me, gentle friend, how 
went he under him ? 

Groom, So proudly as he had disdain'd the ground. 

K, Rich, So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back ! 
That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand ; 
This hand hath made him proud with clapping him : 
Would he not stumble? would he not fall down, 
(Since pride must have a fall,) and break the neck 
Of that proud man that did usurp his back ? 

Richard II. — Act V Sc. 5. 

REVIEW. 

What are influenced by our passions ? 
Give examples. 

What is the proper state of mind for criticism ? 
What disturbs this state of mind ? 



EMOTIONS ASD PASSIONS. 45 

How does anger affect our judgment ? 
To what does anger sometimes force the mind? 
Give an example. 

What fine instance of the influence of passion does Shakspeare 
give in Lear? — in King Richard II. ? 

Part VI. 
The resemblance of Emotions to their Causes. 

That many emotions have some resemblance to 
their causes, is a truth that can be made clear by in- 
duction ; though, as far as I know, the observation has 
not been made by any writer. Motion, in its different 
circumstances, is productive of feelings that resem- 
ble it: sluggish motion produces a languid feeling; 
slow motion, a calm feeling; brisk motion, a lively 
feeling. A large object swells the heart: an elevated 
object makes the spectator stand erect. 

Sounds also produce emotions or feelings that resem- 
ble them ; a low sound brings down the mind ; a full 
tone communicates solemnity ; a sharp sound elevates 
or swells the mind. A wall or pillar declining from 
the perpendicular produces a painful feeling; a 
column with a base looks firm, and though the cylin- 
der is a more beautiful figure, yet the cube for a base 
is preferred ; its angles being extended to a greater 
distance from the centre than the circumference of 
a cylinder. This excludes not a different reason, that 
the base, the shaft, and the capital of a pillar, ought, 
for the sake of variety, to differ from each other ; if 
the shaft be round, the base and capital ought to be 
square. 

A constrained posture, uneasy to the man himself, 
is disagreeable to the spectator; whence a rule in 
painting, that the drapery ought not to adhere to the 
body, but hang loose, that the figures may appear 
easy and free in their movements. The constrained 
posture of a French dancing-master in one of Hogarth's 
pieces, is for that reason disagreeable ; and it is also 



46 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. 

ridiculous, because the constraint is assumed as a 
grace. 

The foregoing observation is not confined to emotions 
or feelings raised by still life : it holds also in what are 
raised by the qualities, actions, and passions, of a sen- 
sible being. Love inspired by a fine woman assumes 
her qualities: it is sublime, soft, tender, severe, or 
gay, according to its cause. This is still more re- 
markable in emotions raised by human actions : a sig- 
nal instance of gratitude, beside procuring esteem for 
the author, raises in the spectator a vague emotion of 
gratitude, which disposes him to be grateful ; and this 
vague emotion has a strong resemblance to its cause, 
the passion that produced the grateful action. Hence 
the choice of books and of company. 

Grief, as well as joy, is infectious ; so is fear, as in 
an army when struck with a sudden panic. Pity is 
similar to its cause ; the anguish of remorse produces 
a harsh pity : if extreme, the pity is mixed with hor- 
ror. Covetousness, cruelty, and treachery, raise no 
similar emotions in a spectator; they excite abhor- 
rence, and fortify the beholder in his aversion to such 
actions. 

Part VII. 

Final Causes of the more frequent Emotions and Passions. 

It is a law in our nature, that we never act but by 
the impulse of desire ; which, in other words, is saying, 
that passion, by the desire included in it, is what de- 
termines the will. Hence in the conduct of life, it is 
of importance, that our passions be directed to proper 
objects, tend to just and rational ends, and, with rela- 
tion to each other, be duly balanced. The beauty of 
contrivance, so conspicuous in the human frame, is not 
confined to the rational part of our nature, but is 
visible over the whole. Concerning the passions in 
particular, however irregular, headstrong, and per- 



EMOTIONS AND PASSIONS. 47 

verse, on a slight view, they may appear, they are 
by nature modelled and tempered with perfect wis- 
dom, for the good of society as well as for private 
good. The subject, treated at large, would be too 
extensive for the present work; all there is room for, are 
a few general observations upon the sensitive part of our 
nature, without regarding that strange irregularity of 
passion discovered in some individuals. Such topical 
irregularities cannot fairly be held an objection to the 
present theory: we are frequently misled by inordi- 
nate passion ; but less frequently by wrong judgment. 

An agreeable cause produces a pleasant emotion ; a 
disagreeable cause a painful emotion; and this law 
admits not a single exception. Many inanimate ob- 
jects, considered as the causes of emotion, are made 
agreeable, to promote our happiness. This proves the 
benignity of the Deity, that we are placed among ob- 
jects, for the most part agreeable, and the bulk of such 
objects are of real use in common life ; hence they are 
agreeable to excite our industry. On the other hand, 
it is not easy to name a disagreeable object that is not 
hurtful ; some are disagreeable because they are nox- 
ious ; others, a dirty marsh for example, or a barren 
heath, are made disagreeable, in order, as above, to 
excite our industry. And with respect to the few things 
that are neither agreeable nor disagreeable, their be- 
ing left indifferent is not a work of chance, but ot 
wisdom ; of such I shall have occasion to give several 
instances. 

Because inanimate objects that are agreeable fix 
our attention, and draw us to them, they in that re- 
spect are termed attractive; such objects inspire pleasant 
emotions, which are gratified by adhering to the ob- 
jects, and enjoying them. Because disagreeable objects 
of the same kind repel us from them, they in that re- 
spect are termed repulsive ; and the painful emotions 
raised by such objects are gratified by flying from them. 
Thus, in general, with respect to things inanimate, the 
tendency of every pleasant emotion is to prolong the 



48 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

pleasure ; and the tendency of every painful emotion 
is to end the pain. 

Sensible beings, considered as objects of passion, lead 
into a more complex theory. A sensible being that is 
agreeable by its attributes, inspires us with a pleasant 
emotion accompanied with desire; and such objects 
being of real use in life, are made agreeable in order 
to excite our industry. To the man of feeling every 
amiable being gives pleasure; every sensible being 
gives pleasure ; and their happiness becomes the grati- 
fication of his desire. 

Sensible beings in distress raise a painful emotion, 
and, were man purely a selfish being, he would desire 
to be relieved from that pain, by turning from the ob- 
ject. But the principle of benevolence gives an op- 
posite direction to his desire : it makes him desire to 
afford relief; and by relieving the person from distress, 
his passion is gratified. The painful passion thus di- 
rected, is termed sympathy ; which, though painful, is 
yet in its nature attractive. And, with respect to its 
final cause, we can be at no loss : it not only tends to 
relieve a fellow-creature from distress, but in its grati- 
fication is considerably more pleasant, than if it were 
repulsive. 

We, in the last place, bring under consideration per- 
sons hateful by vice or wickedness. Imagine a wretch 
who has lately perpetrated some horrid crime : he is 
disagreeable to every spectator; and consequently raises 
in every spectator a painful passion. But a principle 
common to all, prompts us to punish those who do 
wrong ; an envious, a malicious, or a cruel action, be- 
ing disagreeable, raises in the spectator the painful 
emotion of resentment, which frequently swells into a 
passion ; and the natural gratification of the desire in- 
cluded in that passion, is to punish the guilty person: 
I must chastise the wretch by indignation at least, and 
hatred, if not more severely. Here the final cause is 
self-evident. 

An injury done to myself, touching me more than 



EMOTIONS AND PASS10XS. 49 

when done to others, raises my resentment to a higher 
degree. The desire, accordingly, included in this pas- 
sion, is not satisfied with so slight a punishment as in- 
dignation or hatred ; it is not fully gratified with re- 
taliation; and the author must by my hand suffer 
mischief, as great at least as he has done to me. Neither 
can we be at any loss about the final cause of that 
higher degree of resentment ; the whole vigor of the 
passion is required to secure individuals from the in- 
justice and oppression of others. 

A wicked or disgraceful action is disagreeable not 
only to others, but even to the delinquent himself; and 
raises in both a painful emotion, including a desire of 
punishment. The painful emotion felt by the delin- 
quent, is distinguished by the name of remorse; which 
naturally excites him to punish himself. There can- 
not be imagined a better contrivance to deter us from 
vice; for remorse itself is a severe punishment. That 
passion, and the desire of self-punishment derived from 
it, are touched delicately by Otway. 

Monimia. Let mischiefs multiply ! let every hour 
Of my loath'd life yield me increase of horror! 
Oh, let the sun to these unhappy eyes 
Ne'er shine again, but be eclips'd for ever! 
May every thing I look on seem a prodigy, 
To fill my soul with terror, till I quite 
Forget I ever had humanity, 
And grow a curser of the works of nature! 

Orphan. — Act IV. 

Nothing can be more entertaining to a rational mind 
than the economy of the human passions, of which we 
have attempted to give some faint notion. 

It must, however, be acknowledged, that our pas- 
sions, when they happen to swell beyond proper limits, 
take on a less regular appearance i reason may pro- 
claim our duty, but the will, influenced by passion, 
makes gratification always welcome. Hence the power 
of passion, which, when in excess, cannot be resisted 
but by the utmost fortitude of mind : it is bent upon 
gratification ; and where proper objects are wanting, 
it clings to any object at hand without distinction. 

E 



50 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 



REVIEW. 

Do emotions sometimes resemble their causes ? 

Give an example. 

Give examples of the effect of sound — of form — of attitude. 

To what besides still life does the observation apply ? 

What is the effect of an instance of gratitude ? 

What other passions are infectious ? 

What determines the will ? 

What results from hence ? 

Are the passions created for the public and for private good ? 

Why are some inanimate objects made agreeable? 

What does this prove ? 

Why are other inanimate objects made disagreeable ? 

Why are certain objects called attractive? 

Why are others called repulsive? 

What effect is produced by an agreeable sensible being? 

What principle is the origin of sympathy ? 

Does it afford gratification to the person that feels it ? 

What emotion is raised by the sight of vice and wickedness ? — > 
what desire ? 

For what is the principle of personal resentment implanted with- 
in us? 

What is the origin of remorse ? » 

What is its use ? 

What results from passion which has passed the proper limits? 



CHAPTER III. 

Beauty. 

Beauty, the most noted of all the qualities that be- 
long to single objects, is a term which, in its native 
signification, is appropriated to objects of sight. 

A tree, the simplest object of external sense, pre- 
sents to us color, figure, size, and sometimes motion. 
The beauty of the human figure is extraordinary, be- 
ing a composition of numberless beauties, arising from 
the parts and qualities of the objects ; various colors, 
various motions, figures, size, &c. all unite in one com- 
plex object, and strike the eye with combined force. 
Hence it is, that beauty, a quality so remarkable in 
visible objects, lends its name to express every thing 



BEAUTY. 51 

that is eminently agreeable : thus, by a figure of speech, 
we say a beautiful sound, a beautiful thought or ex- 
pression, a beautiful theorem, a beautiful event, a 
beautiful discovery in art or science. But, as figura- 
tive expression is the subject of a following chapter, 
this chapter is confined to beauty in its proper signifi- 
cation. 

It is natural to suppose, that a perception so various 
as that of beauty, comprehending sometimes many 
particulars, sometimes few, should occasion emotions 
equally various ; and yet all the various emotions of 
beauty maintain one common character, that of sweet- 
ness and gaiety. 

Considering-attentively the beauty of visible objects, 
we discover two kinds : first, intrinsic beauty, because 
it is discovered in a single object viewed apart with- 
out relation to any other: the examples above given 
are of that kind. The other, relative beauty, being 
founded on the relation of objects. The purposed dis- 
tribution would lead me to handle these beauties sep- 
arately; but they are frequently so intimately con- 
nected, that, for the sake of connexion, I am forced to 
vary the plan, and to bring them both into the same y 
chapter. Intrinsic beauty is an object of sense merely : 
to perceive the beauty of a spreading oak, or of a 
flowing river, no more is required but singly an act of 
vision. -The perception of relative beauty, is accom- 
panied with an act of understanding and reflection, 
and of means relating to some good end or purpose. 
Intrinsic beauty is ultimate ; and the beauty of effect 
is transferred to the cause. A subject void of beauty, 
appears beautiful from its utility, as an old gothic 
tower, considered as a defence against an enemy ; a 
dwelling-house, from its conveniences. When these 
beauties coincide in any object, it appears delightful. 
The beauty of utility requires no illustration. The 
beauty of color is too familiar to need explanation. 

Let us inquire into the beauty of figure, as arising 



52 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

from regularity, uniformity, proportion, order and sim- 
plicity. 

To inquire why an object, by means of these par- 
ticulars, appears beautiful, would be a vain attempt : 
it seems that the nature of man was originally framed 
with a relish for them, to answer wise and good pur- 
poses. To explain these purposes or final causes, though 
a subject of great importance, has scarce been at- 
tempted by any writer. One thing is evident, that 
our relish for the particulars mentioned adds beauty 
to the objects that surround us, and tends to our hap- 
piness : and the Author of our nature has given many 
signal proofs that this final cause is not below his care. 
We may be confirmed in this thought upon reflecting, 
that our taste for these particulars is not accidental, 
but uniform and universal, making a branch of our 
nature. At the same time, it ought not to be over- 
looked, that regularity, uniformity, order and simpli- 
city, contribute each of them to readiness of appre- 
hension ; enabling us to form more distinct images of 
objects, than can be done with the utmost attention 
where these particulars are not found. With respect 
to proportion, it is in some instances connected with a 
useful end, as in animals, where the best proportioned 
are the strongest and most active ; but instances are 
still more numerous, where the proportions we relish 
have no connexion with utility. Writers on architecture 
insist much on the proportions of a column, and assign 
different proportions to the Doric, Ionic, and Corinth- 
ian ; but no architect will maintain, that accurate pro- 
portions contribute more to use than several that are 
less accurate and less agreeable. 

With respect to the beauty of figures, we confine 
ourselves to the simplest. A circle and a square are 
cast perfectly regular ; yet a square is less beautiful 
than a circle, because a circle is a single object, and 
makes one entire impression, whereas a square is 
composed of four sides or objects. A square is more 



BEAUTY. 53 

beautiful than a hexagon; though each is perfectly- 
regular. 

A square is more regular than a parallelogram, and 
its parts more uniform ; and for these reasons it is more 
beautiful. But that holds with respect to intrinsic 
beauty only ; for in many instances utility turns the 
scale on the side of the parallelogram : this figure for 
the doors and windows of a dwelling-house is preferred, 
because of utility ; and here the beauty of utility pre- 
vails over that of regularity and uniformity! 

A parallelogram again depends, for its beauty ,von 
the proportion of its sides : a great inequality of sides 
annihilates its beauty. Approximation towards equality 
hath the same effect ; for proportion there degenerates 
into imperfect uniformity* and the figure appears an 
unsuccessful attempt towards a square. And thus pro- 
portion contributes to beauty. 

An equilateral triangle yields not to a square in reg- 
ularity, nor in uniformity of parts, and it is more sim- 
ple. But an equilateral triangle is less beautiful than 
a square, which must be owing to inferiority of order 
in the position of its parts"; the sides of an equilateral 
triangle incline to each other in the same angle, being 
the most perfect order they are susceptible of; but 
this order is obscure, and far from being so perfect as 
the parallelism of the sides of a square. Thus order 
contributes to the beauty of visible objects, no less 
than simplicity, regularity, or proportion. 

Uniformity is singular in one capital circumstance, 
that it is apt to disgust by excess : a number of things 
destined for the same use, such as windows, chairs, 
spoons, buttons, cannot be too uniform ; for supposing 
their figure to be good, utility requires uniformity : 
but a scrupulous uniformity of parts in a large garden 
or ffeld, is far from being agreeable. Uniformity among 
connected objects belongs not to the present subject : 
it is handled in the chapter of uniformity and variety. 

In all the works of Nature, simplicity makes an 
illustrious figure. It also makes a figure in works of 

E2 



54 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM:. 

art : profuse ornament in painting, gardening, or archi 
tecture, as well as in dress or in language, shows a 
mean or corrupted taste : — 

Poets, like painters, thus imskilFd to trace 
The naked nature and the living grace, 
With gold and jewels cover every part, 
And hide with ornaments their want of art. 

Pope's Essay on Criticism. 

Simplicity in behavior has an enchanting effect, 
and never fails to gain our affection. And we take 
great delight in the laws of motion, which, with the 
greatest simplicity, are boundless in their operations. 

In the fine arts, simplicity has degenerated into ar- 
tificial refinement. In literary productions and music, 
the degeneracy is much greater. 



REVIEW. 

To what is the term beauty originally applied ? 
Give examples. 

To what things is it extended by a figure of speech ? 
Give examples. 
What is the common character of all the emotions of beauty ? 
What is intrinsic beauty ? — relative beauty ? 
How do they differ ? 

Is the relish for beauty of figure inherent ? 
What is its use? 

How do regularity, &c. aid the mind? 
What is the use of proportion ? 
Why is a square less beautiful than a circle ? 
When is a square less beautiful than a parallelogram ? 
On what does the beauty of a parallelogram depend? 
Why is an equilateral triangle less beautiful than a square ? 
Does order contribute to beauty ? 
In what is uniformity singular ? 
Illustrate this. 
Is simplicity important ? 

Quote Pope's remark on the want of simplicity. 
What is the effect of simplicity in behavior ? 
What is the present state of the fine arts and literature with re 
spect to simplicity ? 



Oi 



GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY, 55 

CHAPTER IV. 

Grandeur and Sublimity, 

Nature hath not more remarkably distinguished us 
from other animals by an erect posture, than by a ca- 
pacious and aspiring mind, attaching us to things great 
and elevated. The ocean, the sky, seize the attention, 
and make a deep impression S robes of state are made 
large and full to draw respect : we admire an elephant 
for its magnitude, notwithstanding its unwieldiness. 

The elevation of an object affects us no less than its 
magnitude : a high place is chosen for the statue of a 
deity or hero ; a tree growing on the brink of a pre- 
cipice looks charming when viewed from the plain be- 
low : a throne is erected for the chief magistrate, and 
a chair with a high seat for the president of a court. 
Among all nations, heaven is placed far above us, hell 
far below us. 

In some objects, greatness and elevation concur to 
make a complicated impression : the Alps and the Peak 
of Teneriffe are proper examples ; with the following 
difference, that in the former greatness seems to pre- 
vail, elevation in the latter. 

Great and elevated objects, considered with relation 
to the emotions produced by them, are termed grand 
and sublime. Grandeur and sublimity have a double 
signification: they commonly signify the quality or cir- 
cumstance in objects by which the emotions of grandeur 
and sublimity are produced ; sometimes the emotions 
themselves. 

St. Peter's at Rome, the great pyramid of Egypt, 
the Alps, an arm of the sea, a clear sky, are all grand 
and beautiful. A regiment in battle array is grand, a 
crowd of people not so. Greatness or magnitude dis- 
tinguishes grandeur from beauty ; agreeableness is the 
genus of which beauty and grandeur are species. The 



56 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

emotion of grandeur is pleasant, and is serious rather 
than gay. 

A large object is not so agreeable by Its regularity, 
as a small one ; nor so disagreeable by its irregulari- 
ties. A towering hill is delightful, a chain of moun- 
tains no less so; and the bulk of objects in a natural 
landscape are beautiful ; some of them are even grand, 
as a flowing river, a spreading oak, an extended plain, 
which all raise emotions of grandeur. We range at 
large amidst the magnificence of Nature, and overlook 
slight beauties or deformities. In a small building, ir- 
regularity is disagreeable ; but in a magnificent palace, 
or a large gothic church, irregularities are less regard- 
ed ; in an epic poem we pardon many negligences that 
would not be permitted in a sonnet or an epigram. Not- 
withstanding such exceptions, it may be justly laid down 
for a rule, that in works of art, order and regularity 
ought to be governing principles : and hence the ob- 
servation of Longinus: "In works of art, we have re- 
gard to exact proportion; in those of nature, to gran- 
deur and magnificence." 

The same reflections are in a great measure appli- 
caple to sublimity ; particularly, that, like grandeur, 
it is a species of agreeableness ; that a beautiful ob- 
ject placed high, appearing more agreeable than for- 
merly, produces in the spectator a new emotion, term- 
ed the emotion of sublimity ; and that the perfection of 
order, regularity, and proportion, is less required in 
objects placed high, or at a distance, than at hand. 

The pleasant emotion raised by large objects, has 
not escaped the poets : 

He doth bestride the narrow world 



Like a Colossus ; and we petty men 
Walk under his huge legs. 

Julius Cesar. — Act I. Sc. 

-Majesty 



Dies not alone, but, like a gulf, doth draw 
What's near it with it. It is a massy wheel 
Fix'd on the summit of the highest mount, 
To whose huge spokes, ten thousand lesser things 



GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 67 

Are mortis'd and adjoin'd; which, when it falls, 
Each small annexment, petty consequence, 
Attends the boist'rous ruin. 

Hamlet.— Act III. Sc. 3. 

The poets have also made good use of the emotion 
produced by the elevated situation of an object : 

O thou, the earthly author of my blood, 
Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, 
Doth with a twofold vigor lift me up. 
To reach at victory above my head. 

Richard II.— Act I. Sc. 3 

Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal 
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne. 

Richard II.— Act V. Sc. 1. 

Antony, Why was I rais'd the meteor of the world, 
Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travell'd, 
Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward, 
To be trod out by Caesar ? 

Dryden, All for Love. — Act I. 

The description of Paradise, in the fourth book of 
Paradise Lost, is a fine illustration of the impression 
made by elevated objects: 

So on he fares, and to the border comes 
Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, 
Now nearer, crowns with her inclosure green, 
As with a rural mound, the champain head 
Of a steep wilderness; whose hairy sides 
With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, 
Access denied ; and over-head up grew 
Insuperable height of loftiest shade, 
Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, 
A sylvan scene; and as the ranks ascend, 
Shade above shade, a woody theatre 
Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops 
The verd'rous wall of Paradise up-sprung; 
Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
Into his nether empire neighb ; ring round. 
And higher than that wall a circling row 
Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, 
Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, 
Appear'd with say enamell'd colors mix'd. 

B. IV. 1. 131. 

A mental progress from the capital of a kingdom to 
that of Europe — to the whole Earth — to the solar 
system — to the universe, is extremely pleasant: the 
heart swells, the mind is dilated at every step. Re- 



58 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

turning in an opposite direction, the descent is plea- 
sant from a different cause. Looking down upon ob- 
jects makes a part of the pleasure of elevation. It 
becomes painful when the object is so far below as to 
create dizziness ; and even when that is the case, we 
feel a sort of pleasure mixed with the pain : witness 
Shakspeare's description of Dover cliffs : 



-How fearful 



And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low ! 
The crows and choughs, that wing the midway-air, 
Show scarce so gross as beetles. Half-way down 
Hangs one that gathers samphire; dreadful trade! 
Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. 
The fishermen that walk upon the beach 
Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark 
Diminish'd to her cock ; her cock, a buoy 
Almost too small for sight : The murm'ring surge, 
That on th' unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, 
Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, 
Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight 
Topple down headlong. 

KiisG Lear.— Act IV. Sc. 6. 

Grandeur and sublimity, have hitherto been con- 
sidered as applicable to objects of sight ; we now 
proceed to consider them in relation to the fine arts, 
and in their figurative signification. The term beauty 
is also extended to intellectual and moral objects, as 
well as to objects of sight. Generosity is an elevated 
emotion ; firmness of soul, when superior to misfortune, 
is called magnanimity. , Every emotion that contracts 
the mind, and fixeth it upon things trivial or of no 
importance, is termed low, by its resemblance to an 
emotion produced by a little or low object of sight : 
thus an appetite for trifling amusements is called a low 
taste. The same terms are applied to characters and 
actions : we talk familiarly of an elevated genius, of a 
great man, and equally so of littleness of mind : some 
actions are great and elevated, and others are little and 
grovelling. Sentiments, and even expressions, are 
characterized in the same manner : an expression or 
sentiment that raises the mind is denominated great or 



C 



elevated; and hence the sublime in poetry. In such 



-GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 59 

figurative terms, we lose the distinction between great 
and elevated in their proper sense ; for the resemblance 
is not so entire as to preserve these terms distinct in 
their figurative application. 

A gradual progress from small to great is no less 
remarkable in figurative, than in real grandeur or 
elevation ; and when the thoughts rise in an ascending 
series, the period is termed a climax. 

Within certain limits, grandeur ana sublimity pro- 
duce their strongest effects, which lessen by excess as 
well as by defect. This is remarkable in grandeur 
and sublimity taken in their proper sense : the grand- 
est emotion that can be raised by a visible object, is 
where the object can be taken in at one view; if so 
immense as not to be comprehended but in parts, it 
tends rather to distract than satisfy the mind. In like 
manner, the strongest emotion produced by elevation 
is where the object is seen distinctly; a greater ele- 
vation lessens in appearance the object, till it vanishes 
out of sight with its pleasant emotion. The same is 
equally remarkable in figurative grandeur and eleva- 
tion, because, as observed above, they are scarcely 
distinguishable. 

Objects of sight that are not remarkably great nor 
high, scarce raise any emotion of grandeur or of 
sublimity: the same holds in other objects; for we 
find the mind roused and animated, without being 
carried to that height. This difference may be dis- 
cerned in many sorts of music, as well as in some 
musical instruments : a kettle-drum rouses, a hautboy 
animates ; but neither of them inspires an emotion of 
sublimity : revenge animates ; but never produces an 
emotion grand or sublime. I am willing to put this to 
the test, by placing before my reader a most spirited 
picture of revenge : it is a speech of Antony, wailing 
over the body of Cassar : — 

Woe to the band that shed this costly blood ! 
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, 
, (Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips, 
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue,) 



60 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

A curse shall light upon the limbs of men ; 
Domestic fury, and fierce civil strife, 
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy : 
Blood and destruction shall be so in use, 
And dreadful objects so familiar, 
That mothers shall but smile, when they behold 
Their infants quarter'd by the hands of war, 
All pity chok'd with custom of fell deeds ; 
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge, 
With Ate by his side come hot from hell, 
Shall in these confines, with a monarch's voice, 
Cry, Havoc ! and let slip the dogs of war. 

Julius C^sar. — Act III. Sc. lr 

A capital rule for reaching the sublime in sucb 
works of art as are capable of it, is, to present those 
parts or circumstances only which make the greatest 
figure, keeping out of view every thing low or trivial : 
for the mind, elevated by an important object, cannot, 
without reluctance, be forced down to bestow any 
share of its attention upon trifles. Such judicious 
selection of capital circumstances, is styled grandeur 
of manner. In none of the fine arts is there so great 
scope for that rule as in poetry ; which, by that means, 
enjoys a remarkable power of bestowing upon objects 
and events an air of grandeur : when we are specta- 
tors, every minute object presents itself in its order; 
but, in describing at second-hand, these are laid aside, 
and the capital objects are brought close together. A 
judicious taste in thus selecting the most interesting 
incidents, to give them an united force, accounts for 
a fact that may appear surprising ; which is, that we 
are more moved by a spirited narrative at second- 
hand, than by being spectators of the event itself, in 
all its circumstances. 

The following description of a battle is remarkably 
sublime, by collecting together, in the fewest words, 
those circumstances which make the greatest figure. 

Like autumn's dark storms pouring from two echoing hills, to- 
ward each other approached the heroes: as two dark streams 
from high rocks meet and roar on the plain, loud, rough, and 
dark in ^battle, meet Lochlin and Inisfail. Chief mixes his strokes 
with chief, and man with man : steel sounds on steel, and helmets 
are cleft on high : blood bursts and smokes around ; strings mur- 



GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 61 

mur on the polished yew : darts rush along the sky : spears fall 
like sparks of flame that gild the stormy face of night. 

As the noise of the troubled ocean when roll the waves on high, 
as the last peal of thundering heaven, such is the noise of battle. 
Though Cormac's hundred bards were there, feeble were the 
voice of a hundred bards to send the deaths to future times ; for 
many were the deaths of the heroes, and wide poured the blood of 
the valiant. 

FlNGAL. 

This rule is applicable to other fine arts, especially 
painting. Smaller parts are suppressed, folds of dra- 
pery are few and large ; fore-shortenings are bad, and 
all muscles ought to be entire. 

Every one at present subscribes to that rule as 
applied to gardening, in opposition to parterres split 
into a thousand small parts in the stiffest regularity of 
figure. The most eminent architects have governed 
themselves by the same rule in all their works. 

Another rule chiefly regards the sublime, though 
it is applicable to every sort of literary performance 
intended for amusement; and that is, to avoid as much 
as possible abstract and general terms. Such terms, 
similar to mathematical signs, are contrived to express 
our thoughts in a concise manner ; but images, which 
are the life of poetry, cannot be raised in any perfec- 
tion but by introducing particular objects. General 
terms that comprehend a number of individuals, must 
be excepted from that rule; our kindred, our clan, 
our country, and words of the like import, though 
they scarce raise any image, have, however, a won- 
derful power over our passions : the greatness of the 
complex object overbalances the obscurity of the 
image. 

As, on the one hand, no means directly applied have 
more influence to raise the mind than grandeur and 
sublimity ; so, on the other, no means indirectly ap- 
plied have more influence to sink and depress it ; for 
in a state of elevation, the artful introduction of an 
humbling object, makes the fall great in proportion to 
the elevation. Of this observation Shakspeare gives 
a beautiful example : 

F 



62 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 

Leave not a rack behind. 

Tempest. — Act IV. Sc. 1. 

The elevation of the mind in the former part of this 
beautiful passage, makes the fall great in proportion, 
when the most hufribling of all images is introduced, 
that of an utter dissolution of the earth and its inhab- 
itants. The mind, when warmed, is more susceptible 
of impressions than in a cool state : and a depressing 
or melancholy object listened to, makes the strongest 
impression when it reaches the mind in its highest state 
of elevation or cheerfulness. 

The straining an elevated subject beyond due bounds, 
is a vice not so frequent as to require the correction of 
criticism. But false sublime is a rock that writers of more 
fire than judgment commonly split on ; and therefore a 
collection of examples may be of use as a beacon to fu- 
ture adventurers. One species of false sublime, known 
by the name of bombast, is common among writers of 
a mean genius; it is a serious endeavor, by strained 
description, to raise a low or familiar subject above its 
rank ; which, instead of being sublime, becomes ridicu- 
lous. I am extremely sensible how prone the mind is, 
in some animating passions, to magnify its objects be- 
yond natural bounds ; but such hyperbolical descrip- 
tion has its limits ; and, when carried beyond the im- 
pulse of the propensity, it degenerates into burlesque^ 
Take the following examples : 

Sejanus. Great and high 

The world knows only two, that's Rome and I. 
My roof receives me not; 'tis air I tread, 
And at each step I feel my advanc'd head 
Knock out a star in heaven. 

Sejanus, Ben Jonson. — Act V. 

A writer, who has no natural elevation of mind, de- 
viates readily into bombast : he strains above his natu- 
ral powers ; and the violent effort carries him beyond 
the bounds of propriety. 



GRANDEUR AND SUBLIMITY. 63 

Another species of false sublime, still more faulty 
than bombast, is to force elevation by introducing ima- 
ginary beings without preserving any propriety in their 
actions^ as if it were lawful to ascribe every extrava- 
gance and inconsistence to beings of the poet's crea- 
tion. No writers are more licentious in that article 
than Jonson and Dryden. 

/ When the sublime is carried to its due height, and 
circumscribed within proper bounds, it enchants the 
mindj and raises the most delightful emotions: the 
reader, engrossed by a sublime object, feels himself 
raised to a higher rank. Considering that effect, it is 
not wonderful that the history of conquerors and he- 
roes should be universally the favorite entertainment. 
And this accounts for what I once erroneously suspect- 
ed to be a wrong bias originally in human nature ; 
which is, that the grossest acts of oppression and in- 
justice scarce blemish the character of a great con- 
queror : we, nevertheless, warmly espouse his interest, 
accompany him in his exploits, and are anxious for his 
success ; the splendor and enthusiasm of the hero trans- 
fused into the readers, elevate their minds far above 
the rules of justice, and render them in a great mea- 
sure insensible of the wrongs that are committed. 

REVIEW. 

What is the effect of great and elevated objects ? 

Give examples of the effect of elevated objects. 

Explain the double signification of grandeur and sublimity. 

Give examples of objects which are grand and beautiful. 

How is grandeur distinguished from beauty ? 

What are the effects of regularity in large and in small objects ? 

Give examples. 

What are the effects of irregularity ? 

What rule is laid down ? 

What emotion is produced by an agreeable object placed high ? 

Give examples of the pleasant emotions raised by large objects. 

Exemplify the pleasant effect of elevated objects? 

Give an example of the mingled emotion produced by looking 
down on distant objects far below us. 

Is the term beauty extended to intellectual and moral objects ? 

What is a low emotion ? 

What is the effect of a great sentiment or expression on the 
mind ? 



64 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

What arises hence ? 

What is a climax ? 

What is the effect of excessive grandeur or sublimity? 

Of excessive elevation ? 

Does revenge produce a sublime emotion ? 

Give a picture of revenge. 

Give a rule for reaching the sublime. 

What is this judicious selection called? 

Where is the greatest scope for this rule 

Give an example. 

To what other arts is the rule applicable? 

What other rule is given ? 

What is the exception to this rule ? 

What principle is illustrated by the quotation from the Tempest? 

What observations are made on it ? 

What is bombast ? 

Give an example. 

What is another species of false sublime ? 

What writers use it ? 

What is the natural effect of the sublime on the mind ? 

For what fact does this account ? 



CHAPTER V. 

Motion and Force. 

Motion is agreeable to the eye ; yet is a body at rest 
not disagreeable, because the bulk of things we see 
are at rest. Motion is agreeable in all its varieties ; 
the quickest for an instant is delightful, but soon ap- 
pears too rapid, and becomes painful by accelerating 
the course of our perceptions. Regular motion is pre- 
ferred to irregular motion ; and uniformly accelerated 
motion is more agreeable than when uniformly retard- 
ed. Motion upward is agreeable by tending to eleva- 
tion ; in a straight line it is agreeable, but more so 
when undulating, and the motion of fluids is preferred 
to that of solid bodies. 

It is agreeable to see a thing exert force ; but it 
makes not the thing either agreeable or disagreeable, 
to see force exerted upon it. 

Though motion and force are each of them agree- 
able, the impressions they make are different. This 



MOTION AXD FORCE. 65 

difference, clearly felt, is not easily described. All we 
can say is, that the emotion raised by a moving body, 
resembling its cause, is felt as if the mind were car- 
ried along : the emotion raised by force exerted, re- 
sembling also its cause, is felt as if force were exerted 
within the mind. 

When great force is exerted, the effort felt is ani- 
mating ; and when the effort overpowers the mind, as 
the explosion of gunpowder, the violence of a torrent, 
in the weight of a mountain, and the crush of an earth- 
quake, astonishment is created rather than pleasure. 

No quality or circumstance contributes more to 
grandeur than force, especially where exerted by sen- 
sible beings. I cannot make the observation more evi- 
dent than by the following quotations : 

-Him the Almighty Power 



Hurl'd headlong flaming from the ethereal sky, 
With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell 
In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms. 

Paradise Lost. — Book I. 

Sow storming fury rose, 



And clamor such as heard in heaven till now 

Was never : arms on armor clashing bray'd 

Horrible discord, and the madding wheels 

Of brazen chariots rag'd ; dire was the noise 

Of conflict ; over-head the dismal hiss 

Of fiery darts in flaming volleys flew, 

And flying vaulted either host with fire. 

So under Uery cope together rush'd 

Both battles main, with ruinous assault 

And inextinguishable rage ; all heaven 

Resounded ; and had earth been then, all earth 

Had to her centre shook. Ibid. — Book VI 

The planetary system presents us with the finest 
view of motion and force in conjunction ; but motion 
and force are also agreeable by their utility, when em- 
ployed as means to accomplish some beneficial end. 
Hence the superior beauty of some machines, where 
force and motion concur to perform the work of num- 
berless hands. Hence the beautiful motions, firm and 
regular, of a horse trained for war : everv single step 

F2 



66 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

is the fittest that can be for obtaining the purposed 
end. But the grace of motion is visible chiefly in man, 
because every gesture is significant. The power how- 
ever of agreeable motion is not a common talent: 
every limb of the human body has an agreeable and 
disagreeable motion ; some motions being extremely 
graceful, others plain and vulgar ; some expressing dig- 
nity, others meanness. But the pleasure here, arising 
not singly from the beauty of motion, but from indi- 
cating character and sentiment, belongs to different 
chapters. 

I should conclude with the final cause of the relish 
we have for motion and force, were it not so evident 
as to require no explanation. We are placed here in 
such circumstances as to make industry essential to 
our well-being ; for without industry the plainest ne- 
cessaries of life are not obtained. When our situation, 
therefore, in this world requires activity and a constant 
exertion of motion and force, Providence indulgently 
provides for our welfare by making these agreeable to 
us : it would be a gross imperfection in our nature, to 
make any thing disagreeable that we depend on for 
existence ; and even indifference would slacken greatly 
that degree of activity which is indispensable. 

REVIEW. 

Is motion agreeable to the eye ? 

What sorts of motion are most agreeable ? 

Is force agreeable ? 

Describe the emotion caused by it. 

What is the effect of great and overpowering force ? 

Give examples of the sublime effect of force. 

What affords the finest view of united motion and force ? 

Give examples of the agreeable effect of useful force. 

Where is grace chiefly visible ? 

Why has Providence made motion and force agreeable ? 



NOVELTY. 67 

CHAPTER VI. 

Novelty and the unexpected Appearance of Objects, 

Except beauty and greatness, novelty has the most 
powerful influence to raise emotions. A new object 
produces an emotion of wonder, w r hich is different from 
admiration, because this last is directed to the person 
who performs any thing wonderful. We cease to won- 
der at objects with which we are familiarized by time. 
When any thing breaks unexpectedly upon the mind, 
it raises an emotion of surprise. 

That emotion may be produced by the most familiar 
object, as when one unexpectedly meets a friend who 
was reported to be dead ; or a man in high life lately 
a beggar. On the other hand, a new object, however 
strange, will not produce the emotion, if the spectator 
be prepared for the sight ; an elephant in India will 
not surprise a traveller who goes to see one ; and yet 
its novelty will raise his wonder : an Indian in Britain 
would be much surprised to stumble upon an elephant 
feeding at large in the open fields ; but the creature 
itself, to which he was accustomed, would not raise his 
wonder. 

Surprise thus in several respects differs from won- 
der : unexpectedness is the cause of the former emo- 
tion ; novelty is the cause of the latter. They per- 
fectly agree in the shortness of their duration; for 
things soon decay that come soon to perfection. 

New objects are sometimes terrible, sometimes de- 
lightful; and a threatening object adds to our terror 
by its novelty ; but from that experiment it does not 
follow, that novelty is in itself disagreeable ; for it is 
perfectly consistent, that we be delighted with an ob- 
ject in one view, and terrified with it in another : a 
river in flood swelling over its banks, is a grand and 
delightful object; and yet it may produce no small de- 
gree of fear when we attempt to cross it : courage and 



68 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

magnanimity are agreeable ; and yet, when we view 
these qualities in an enemy, they serve to increase our 
terror. In the same manner, novelty may produce 
two effects clearly distinguishable from each other : it 
may, directly and in itself, be agreeable ; and it may 
have an opposite effect indirectly, which is, to inspire 
terror ; for when a new object appears in any degree 
dangerous, our ignorance of its powers and qualities 
affords ample scope for the imagination to dress it in 
the most frightful colors. The first sight of a lion, for 
example, may at the same instant produce two oppo- 
site feelings, the pleasant emotion of wonder, and the 
painful passion of terror: the novelty of the object 
produces the former directly, and contributes to the 
latter indirectly. Thus, when the subject is analyzed, 
we find, that the power which novelty hath indirectly 
to inflame terror, is perfectly consistent with its being 
in every circumstance agreeable. Surprise may be 
pleasant or painful, for its sole effect is to swell the 
emotion raised by the object. A tide of connected ob- 
jects gliding gently into the mind, produces no perturba- 
tion : but an object breaking in unexpectedly, sounds 
an alarm, rouses the mind, and directs its whole at- 
tention to the object, which, if agreeable, becomes 
doubly so. 

The pleasure of novelty is distinguishable from that 
of variety ; to produce the latter, a plurality of ob- 
jects is necessary: the former arises from a circum- 
stance found in a single object. Again, where objects, 
whether coexistent or in succession, are sufficiently 
diversified, the pleasure of variety is complete, though 
every single object of the train be familiar; but the 
pleasure of novelty, directly opposite to familiarity, 
requires no diversification. 

There are different degrees of novelty, and its effects 
are in proportion. The lowest degree is found in ob 
jects surveyed a second time after a long interval : and 
that in this case an object takes on some appearance 
of novelty, is certain from experience : a large build- 



NOVELTY. 69 

ing of many parts variously adorned, or an extensive 
field embellished with trees, lakes, temples, statues, 
and other ornaments, will appear new oftener than 
once : the memory of an object so complex is soon lost, 
of its parts at least, or of their arrangement. Absence 
will give an air of novelty to an object once familiar 
The mind balances between two things equally new 
and singular ; but when told one of them is from a dis- 
tant quarter of the world, it soon makes its election* 
Hence the preference for foreign luxuries and curiosi- 
ties. 

The next degree of novelty, mounting upwards, is 
found in objects of which we have some information 
at second-hand ; for description never comes up to ac- 
tual sight. 

A new object that bears some distant resemblance 
to a known species, is an instance of a third degree of 
novelty: a strong resemblance among individuals of the 
same species, prevents almost entirely the effect of 
novelty, unless distance of place, or some other cir- 
cumstance, concur ; but where the resemblance is faint, 
some degree of wonder is felt, and the emotion risei 
in proportion to the faintness of the resemblance. 

The highest degree of wonder arises from unknown 
objects that have no analogy to any species we are ac- 
quainted with. Shakspeare, in a simile, introduces 
that species of novelty : 

As glorious to the sight 
As is a winged messenger from heaven 
Unto the white up-turned wond'ring eye 
Of mortals, that fall back to gaze on him 
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
And sails upon the bosom of the air. 

Romeo and Juliet. 

Love of novelty prevails in children, in idlers, and 
in men of shallow understanding. It reigns chiefly 
among persons of mean taste, who are ignorant of 
refined and elegant pleasures. 

One final cause of wonder is, that this emotion is 
intended to stimulate our curiosity : another is, to 



70 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

prepare our mind for receiving deep impressions of 
new objects. 

Now, in order to make a deep impression, it is wisely 
contrived, that things should be introduced to our 
acquaintance with a certain pomp and solemnity, pro- 
ductive of a vivid emotion. When the impression is 
once fairly made, the emotion of novelty, being no 
longer necessary, vanisheth almost instantaneously, 
never to return, unless where the impression happens 
to be obliterated by length of time or other means ; 
in which case the second introduction hath nearly the 
same solemnity with the first. 

Designing wisdom is nowhere more legible than in 
this part of the human frame. If new objects did 
not affect us in a very peculiar manner, their impres- 
sions would be so slight as scarcely to be of any use 
in life : on the other hand, did objects continue to af- 
fect us as deeply as at first^he mind would be totally 
engrossed with them, and have no room left either for 
action or reflection.) 

The final cause of surprise is still more evident than 
of novelty. Self-love makes us vigilantly attentive to 
self-preservation; but self-love, which operates by 
means of reason and reflection, and impels not the 
mind to any particular object, or from it, is a principle 
too cool for a sudden emergency. An object breaking 
in unexpectedly, affords no time for deliberation ; and, 
in that case, the agitation of surprise comes in sea- 
sonably ^to rouse self-love into action; surprise give's 
the alarm, and if there be any appearance of danger, 
our whole force is instantly summoned up to shun 01 
prevent it. 

REVIEW. 

What are the effects of novelty ? 

When does a familiar object produce surprise ? 

What is the difference between surprise and wonder? 

Does novelty increase our terror at a threatening object? 

Does this prove novelty itself to be disagreeable ? 

What opposite effect does novelty produce? 

Illustrate this. 



RISIBLE OBJECTS. 71 

How is the pleasure of novelty distinguished from that of variety? 
In what is the lowest degree of novelty found? 
What are the effects of absence and distance ? 
Where is the second degree of novelty found?— the third? — the 
highest ? 
In what sort of persons does the love of novelty prevail ? 
What are the final causes or uses of wonder? 
Why does it not last ? 
What is the use of surprise ? 



CHAPTER VII. 

Risible Objects. 

To amuse us in our waking hours, nature has kindly- 
provided many objects distinguished by the epithet 
?isible, because they raise in us a peculiar emotion, 
expressed externally by laughter, or pleasant and 
mirthful exertion, that unbends the mind, and recruits 
the spirits. Ludicrous signifies what is playsome, 
sportive, or jocular ; and it is the genus of which 
risible is the species. No object is risible but what 
appears slight, little, or trivial ; for we laugh at no- 
thing that is of importance to our own interest, or to 
that of others. A real distress raises pity, and there- 
fore cannot be risible ; but a slight or imaginary 
distress, which moves not pity, is risible. The adven- 
ture of the fulling-mills in Don Quixote is extremely 
risible ; so is the scene where Sancho, in a dark night, 
tumbling into a pit, and attaching himself to the side 
by hand and foot, hangs there in terrible dismay till 
the morning, when he discovers himself to be within a 
foot of the bottom. A nose remarkably long or short, 
is risible; to want it is horrible. Hence nothing just, 
proper, decent, beautiful, proportioned or grand, is 
risible. 

The laugh of derision or of scorn, is occasioned by 
improper acts replete with blunders and absurdities. 
Hence objects that cause laughter are either risible 



12 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

or ridiculous ; the former is mirthful, the latter both 
mirthful and contemptible. The first raises an emo- 
tion altogether pleasant; the pleasant emotion of 
laughter raised by the other, is blended with the pain- 
ful emotion of contempt, and the mixed emotion is 
termed the emotion of ridicule. The pain a ridiculous 
object gives me is resented and punished by a laugh of 
derision. A risible object, on the other hand, gives 
me no pain: it is altogether pleasant by a certain 
sort of titillation, which is expressed externally by 
mirthful laughter. Ridicule will be more fully ex- 
plained afterward: the present chapter is appropri- 
ated to the other emotion. 

Risible objects are so common, and so well under- 
stood, that it is unnecessary to consume paper or time 
upon them. 

REVIEW. 

What is the meaning of risible? — of ludicrous? 
What objects are risible ? 
Give an example from Don Quixote. 
Explain the emotion of ridicule. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Resemblance and Dissimilitude. 

Nature has given us a vigorous propensity to com- 
pare new objects and discover their resemblance and 
difference. We are gratified most by discovering 
difference among things where resemblance prevails, 
and resemblance where difference prevails. A com- 
parison may be too far stretched ; when difference or 
resemblance are carried beyond certain bounds, they 
appear slight and trivial, and cannot be relished by a 
man of taste. 

That resemblance and dissimilitude have an en- 
livening effect upon objects of sight, is sufficiently 



RESEMBLANCE AND DISSIMILITUDE. 73 

evident ; and that they have the same effect upon 
objects of the other senses, is also certain. Nor is 
that law confined to the external senses ; for charac- 
ters contrasted make a greater figure by the opposi- 
tion : Iago, in the tragedy of Othello, says, 

He hath a daily beauty in his life, 
That makes me ugly. 

The character of a fop, and of a rough warrior, 
are nowhere more successfully contrasted than in 
Shakspeare's First Part of Henry IV. Act L Sc. 3. 

Passions and emotions are also inflamed by com- 
parison. A man of high rank humbles the bystand- 
ers, even to annihilate them in their own opinion: 
Caesar, beholding the statue of Alexander, was greatly 
mortified that now, at the age of thirty-two, when 
Alexander died, he had not performed one memorable 
action. 

Our opinions also are much influenced by compari- 
son. A man whose opulence exceeds the ordinary 
standard, is reputed richer than he is in reality; and 
wisdom or weakness, if at all remarkable in an indi- 
vidual, is generally carried beyond the truth. 

The opinion a man forms of his present distress is 
heightened by contrasting it w 7 ith his former happi- 
ness. 

The distress of a long journey makes even an in- 
different inn agreeable; and in travelling when the 
road is good, and the horseman well covered, a bad 
day may be agreeable by making him sensible how 
snug he is. 

The same effect is equally remarkable, when a 
man opposes his condition to that of others. A ship 
tossed about in a storm, makes the spectator reflect 
upon his own ease and security, and puts these in the 
strongest light. A man in grief cannot bear mirth : it 
makes him unhappy, by giving him a lively notion ot 
his unhappiness. 

The appearance of danger gives sometimes pleasure, 
sometimes pain. A timorous person upon the battle- 



74 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

ments of a high tower, is seized with fear, which even 
the consciousness of security cannot dissipate. But 
upon one of a firm head the appearance of danger 
heightens, by opposition, the consciousness of security, 
and, consequently, the satisfaction that arises there- 
from : here, the feeling resembles that above-men- 
tioned, occasioned by a ship laboring in a storm, 

The effect of magnifying or lessening objects by 
means of comparison, is so familiar, that no philoso- 
pher has thought of searching for a cause ; which is 
simply the influence of passion over our opinions. 

The greatest disparity between objects of different 
kinds, is so common as to be observed with perfect in- 
difference; but such disparity between objects of the 
same kind, being uncommon, never fails to produce 
surprise : and may we not fairly conclude, that sur- 
prise, in the latter case, is what occasions the decep- 
tion, when we find no deception in the former? In 
the next place, if surprise be the sole cause of the 
deception, it follows necessarily, that the deception 
will vanish as soon as the objects compared become 
familiar. This holds so unerringly, as to leave no 
reasonable doubt that surprise is the prime mover. 
Our surprise is great the first time a small lap-dog is 
seen with a large mastiff; but when two such animals 
are constantly together, there is no surprise, and it 
makes no difference whether they be viewed sepa- 
rately or in company : we set no bounds to the riches 
of a man who has recently made his fortune, the sur- 
prising disproportion between his present and his past 
situation being carried to an extreme ; but with re- 
gard to a family that for many generations hath en- 
joyed great wealth, the same false reckoning is not 
made. It is equally remarkable, that a trite simile 
has no effect; a lover compared to a moth scorching 
itself at the flame of a candle, originally a sprightly 
simile, has, by frequent use, lost all force ; love can- 
not now be compared to fire, without some degree of 
disgust: it has been justly objected against Horner! 



UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 75 

that the lion is too often introduced into his similies 
all the variety he is able to throw into them not being 
sufficient to keep alive the reader's surprise. 

Emotions make the greatest figure when contrasted 
in succession ; but the succession ought neither to be 
rapid, nor immoderately slow : if too slow, the effect 
of contrast becomes faint by the distance of the emo- 
tions; and if rapid, no single emotion has room to 
expand itself to its full size, but is stifled, as it were, 
in the birth, by a succeeding emotion. 

What is above laid down, will enable us to deter- 
mine a very important question concerning emotions 
raised by the fine arts, namely, Whether ought similar 
emotions to succeed each other, or dissimilar? The 
emotions raised by the fine arts, are for the most part 
too nearly related to make a figure by resemblance ; 
and for that reason their succession ought to be regu- 
lated as much as possible by contrast. This holds 
confessedly in epic and dramatic compositions ; and the 
best writers, led perhaps more by taste than by rea- 
soning, have generally aimed at that beauty. It holds 
equally in music ; in the same cantata, all the variety 
of emotions that are within the power of music may 
not only be indulged, but, to make the greatest figure, 
ought to be contrasted. In gardening, there is an 
additional reason for the rule : the emotions raised by 
that art are at best so faint, that every artifice should 
be employed to give them their utmost vigor : a field 
may be laid out in grand, sweet, gay, neat, wild, mel- 
ancholy scenes ; and when these are viewed in suc- 
cession, grandeur ought to be contrasted with neatness, 
regularity with wildness, and gaiety with melancholy, 
so as that each emotion may succeed its opposite: nay, 
it is an improvement to intermix in the succession 
rude uncultivated spots as well as unbounded views, 
which in themselves are disagreeable, but in succes- 
sion heighten the feeling of the agreeable objects; 
and we have nature for our guide, which in her most 
beautiful landscapes often intermixes rugged rocks, 



76 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

dirty marshes, and barren stony heaths. The greatest 
masters of music have the same view in their compo- 
sitions : the second part of an Italian song seldom con- 
veys any sentiment; and, by its harshness, seems 
purposely contrived to give a greater relish for the 
interesting parts of the composition. 

REVIEW. 

Why are we gratified by the discovery of resemblance and dis- 
similitude ? 

What is the effect of carrying a comparison too far ? 

What is the effect of contrasting characters ? 

Give examples. 

What is the effect of comparison on the passions ? — on opinions ? 

Give an example. 

Exemplify the effect of contrast. 

The opposite effects of an appearance of danger on a timid anr> 
a bold person. 

Where does disparity strike us strongly ? 

Give examples. 

What is the effect of frequently repeating comparisons and 
similies? 

How do emotions make the greatest figure ? 

How should their succession be regulated ? 

Give examples. 

What additional reason is there for the rule in gardening ? 

Illustrate this. 

How is contrast applied to musical composition ? 



CHAPTER IX. 

Uniformity and Variety. 

The necessary succession of our perceptions re- 
I gards order and connexion, uniformity and variety. 
The world is replete with objects as remarkable for 
their variety as for their number ; and these, unfolded 
by the wonderful mechanism of external sense, furnish 
the mind with innumerable perceptions, which, joined 
with ideas of memory, imagination and reflection, 
form a complete train that has no gap or interval. 
This train depends little on the will; by artificial 
means it may be retarded or accelerated, rendered 



UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 77 

more various, or more uniform, but in one shape or 
other it is unavoidable. 

The natural causes which accelerate or retard this 
successfon are these: one man is distinguished from 
another, by no circumstance more remarkably, than 
his train of perceptions : to a cold languid temper 
belongs a slow course of perceptions, which occasions 
dullness of apprehension, and sluggishness in action : to 
a warm temper, on the contrary, belongs a quick 
course of perceptions, which occasions quickness of 
apprehension and activity in business. In youth is 
observable a quicker succession of perceptions than in 
old age ; and hence, in youth, a remarkable avidity 
for variety of amusements, which in riper years give 
place to more uniform and more sedate occupations. 
This qualifies men of middle age for business where 
activity is required, but with a greater proportion of 
uniformity than variety. In old age, a slow and lan- 
guid succession makes variety unnecessary ; and for 
that reason, the aged, in all their motions, are gene- 
rally governed by an habitual uniformity. Whatever 
be the cause, we may venture to pronounce, that her t 
in the imagination and temper is always connected 
with a brisk flow of perceptions. 

The natural rate of succession depends also, in some 
degree, upon the particular perceptions that compose 
the train. Agreeable objects take a strong hold of 
the mind; grandeur and novelty exclude a'l other 
ideas; the mind bears a quick succession of related 
ideas ; the present occupation has most influence : a 
roving disposition embraces new objects with avidity : 
and the passions of love and hatred cause the mind to 
brood over its object. 

The power that nature hath given us over our train 
of perceptions, may be greatly strengthened by prop- 
er discipline, and by an early application to business ; 
witness some mathematicians, who go far beyond com- 
mon nature in slowness and uniformity : and still more, 
persons devoted to religious exercises, who pass whole 

G2 



78 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

days in contemplation, and impose upon themselves 
long and severe penances. With respect to celerity 
and variety, it is not easily conceived what length a 
habit of activity in affairs will carry some men. Let 
a stranger, or let any person to whom the sight is not 
familiar, attend the chancellor of Great Britain through 
the labors but of one day, during a session of parlia- 
ment: how great will be his astonishment ! what mul- 
tiplicity of law business, what deep thinking, and 
what elaborate application to matters of government ! 
The train of perceptions must in that great man be 
accelerated far beyond the ordinary course of nature; 
yet no confusion or hurry, but in every article the 
greatest order and accuracy. Such is the force of 
habit. How happy is man, to have the command of a 
principle of action that can elevate him so far above 
the ordinary condition of humanity ! 

In considering uniformity and variety in relation to 
the fine arts, when either ought to prevail, we may 
observe, that in a /picture of an interesting event 
which strongly attaches us to a single object, the mind 
relishes not a multiplicity of figures, nor of ornaments ; 
a picture representing a gay subject, admits great 
variety of figures and ornament^; because these are 
agreeable to the mind in a cheerful tone. The same 
observation is applicable to poetry and music. 

It must at the same time be remarked, that one can 
bear a greater variety of natural objects, than of 
objects in a picture ; and a greater variety in a picture 
than in a description. A real object presented to 
view, makes an impression more readily than when 
represented in colors, and much more readily than 
when represented in words. Hence it is, that the pro- 
fuse variety of objects in some natural landscapes, 
neither breeds confusion nor fatigue ; and for the same 
reason, there is place for greater variety of ornament 
in a picture than in a poem. A picture, however, 
like a building, ought to be so simple as to be compre- 
hended in one view. Whether every one of Le Bran's 



UNIFORMITY AND VARIETY. 79 

pictures of Alexander's history will stand this test, is 
submitted to judges. 

From these general observations, I proceed to par- 
ticulars. In works exposed continually to public view, 
variety ought to be studied. It is a rule accordingly 
in sculpture, to contrast the different limbs of a statue, 
in order to give it all the variety possible. Though 
the cone, in a single view, be more beautiful than the 
pyramid ; yet a pyramidal steeple, because of its va- 
riety, is justly preferred. For the same reason, the 
oval is preferred before the circle; and painters, in 
copying buildings or any regular work, give an air of 
variety, by representing the subject in an angular 
view : w T e are pleased with the variety, without losing 
sight of the regularity. In a landscape representing 
animals, those especially of the same kind, contrast 
ought to prevail ; to draw one sleeping, another awake ; 
one sitting, another in motion : one moving toward the 
spectator, another from him, is the life of such a per- 
formance. 

In every sort of w r riting intended for amusement, 
variety is necessary in proportion to the length of the 
work. Want of variety is sensibly felt in Da vi la's his- 
tory of the civil wars of France ; the events are in- 
deed important and various ; but the reader languishes 
by a tiresome monotony of character, every person 
engaged being figured a consummate politician, gov- 
erned by interest only. It is hard to say, whether Ovid 
disgusts more by too great variety, or too great uni- 
formity ; his stories are all of the same kind, concluding 
invariably with the transformation of one being into 
another ; and so far he is tiresome by excess in uni- 
formity : he is not less fatiguing by excess in variety, 
hurrying his reader incessantly from story to story. 
Ariosto is still more fatiguing than Ovid, by exceeding 
the just bounds of variety: not satisfied, like Ovid, with 
a succession in his stories, he distracts the reader, by 
jumbling together a multitude of them without any 
connexion. Nor is the Orlando Furioso less tiresome 



80 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

by its uniformity than the Metamorphoses, though in 
a different manner : after a story is brought to a crisis, 
the reader, intent on the catastrophe, is suddenly 
snatched away to a new story, which makes no im- 
pression so long as the mind is occupied with the for- 
mer. This tantalizing method, besides its uniformity, 
prevents that sympathy which is raised by an inter- 
esting event when the reader meets with no interrup- 
tion. 

REVIEW. 

Describe the train of our perceptions. 

Does it depend on the will? 

May it be modified at will ? 

What causes accelerate or retard it ? 

How are its effects apparent at different ages ? 

On what else does the rate of succession depend ? 

How may the power over our train of. perceptions be strength- 
ened ? 

Give examples. 

What is the rule respecting uniformity and variety in painting? 

What respecting natural objects and descriptions ? 

Which admits of the greater variety of ornament, a picture or 
a poem ? 

What is the rule with respect to works exposed continually to 
public view ? 

Give examples. 

What should prevail in a landscape ? 

Give examples. 

In writing intended for amusement ? 

Give examples. 

What is observed of Ovid and Ariosto? 



CHAPTER X. 

Congruity and Propriety. 

Man is superior to the brute, not more by his ra- 
tional faculties, than by his senses. With respect to 
external senses, brutes probably yield not to men ; and 
they may also have some obscure perception of beauty; 
but the more delicate senses of regularity, order, uni- 
formity, and congruity, being connected with morality 



CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. 81 

and religion* are reserved to dignify the chief of the 
terrestrial creation. Upon that account, no discipline 
is more suitable to man, nor more congruous to the dig- 
nity of his nature, than that which refines his taste, 
and leads him to distinguish, in every subject, what is 
regular, what is orderly, what is suitable, and what is 
fit and proper. 

It is clear, from the very conception of the terms 
congruity and propriety, that they are not applicable to 
any single object ; they imply a plurality, and signify 
a particular relation between different objects,; and 
the perception we have of this relation, proceeds from 
a sense of congruity or propriety ; that congruity or 
propriety, wherever perceived, is agreeable ; and in- 
congruity or impropriety, disagreeable. The only diffi- 
culty is, to ascertain what are the particular objects 
that suggest these relations ; for there are many ob- 
jects that do not: the sea, viewed in conjunction with 
a picture, or a man in conjunction with a mountain, 
suggest not either congruity or incongruity. We never 
perceive congruity nor incongruity, but among things 
connected by some relation ; as a man and his actions, 
a principal and its accessories, a subject and its orna- 
ments. We are indeed so framed by nature, among 
things so connected, to require a certain suitableness 
or correspondence termed congruity or propriety ; and 
to be displeased when we find the opposite relation of 
incongruity or impropriety. 

The degree of congruity is proportioned to the con- 
nexion in things connected, as in behavior and manner 
of living ; the relation between an edifice and the 
ground it stands on : the congruity among members of 
a club ought to be as obvious as among things placed 
for show in the same niche. 

Congruity is so nearly allied to beauty, as commonly 
to be held a species of it ; and yet they differ so essen- 
tially, as never to coincide: beauty, like color, is placed 
upon a single subject; congruity upon a plurality: 
further, a thing beautiful in itself, may, with relation 



82 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

to other things, produce the strongest sense of incon- 
gruity. 

Congruity and propriety are commonly reckoned 
synonymous terms ; and hitherto, in opening the sub- 
ject, they have been used indifferently : but they are 
distinguishable ; and the precise meaning of each must 
be ascertained. Congruity is the genus, of which pro- 
priety is a species ; for we call nothing propriety, but 
that congruity or suitableness which ought to subsist 
between sensible beings and their thoughts, words, and 
actions. 

The relation of a part to the whole, being extremely 
intimate, demands the utmost degree of congruity. 
even the slightest deviation is disgustful. 

Examples of congruity and incongruity are furnished 
in plenty by the relation between a subject and its or- 
naments. A literary performance intended merely for 
amusement, is susceptible of much ornament, as well 
as a music-room or a play-house ; for in gaiety the 
mind has a peculiar relish for show and decoration. 
Gorgeous apparel is not unsuitable among opera act- 
ors ; grave subjects need little ornament, and a person 
of mean appearance in such dress, is a complete in- 
congruity. Sweetness of look and manner require sim- 
plicity of dress : 

For loveliness 
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, 
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most. 

Congruity regulates both the quantity and the kind of 
ornament ; the decorations for a dancing-rooir^ must be 
gay ; for a church, grave ; for a shield, warlike^ though 
the shield of Achilles has in general the arts"of peace, 
joy, and festivity. 

Nothing is more intimately related to a man than 
his sentiments, words, and actions j and therefore we 
require here the strictest conformity. When we find 
what we thus require, we have a lively sense of pro- 
priety ; when we find the contrary, our sense of im- 
propriety is no less lively. Hence the universal dis- 



CONGRUITY AND PROPRIETY. 83 

taste of affectation, which consists in making a show 
of greater delicacy and refinement, than is suited either 
to the character or circumstances of the person. 

A gross impropriety is punished with contempt and 
indignation,\which are vented against the offender by 
external expressions ; nor is even the slightest impro- 
priety suffered to pass without some degree of con- 
tempt. But there are improprieties of the slighter 
kind, that v provoke laughter ; of which we have ex- 
amples without end in the blunders and absurdities of 
our own species : such improprieties receive a different 
punishment, as will appear by what follows. The 
emotions of contempt and of laughter, occasioned by 
an impropriety of that kind, uniting intimately in the 
mind of the spectator, are expressed externally by a 
peculiar sort of laugh, termed a laugh of derision , or 
scorn. An impropriety that thus moves not only con- 
tempt, but laughter, is distinguished by the epithet of 
ridiculous ; and a laugh of derision or scorn is the pun- 
ishment provided for it by nature. Nor ought it to 
escape observation, that we are so fond of inflicting 
that punishment, as sometimes to exert it even against 
creatures of an inferior species; witness a turkey, 
swelling with pride, and strutting with displayed feath- 
ers, whicl> in a gay mood is apt to provoke a laugh of 
derision. tThe sense of impropriety with respect to 
mistakes, blunders, and absurdities, is calculated for 
the good of mankind.; In the spectators it is produc- 
tive of mirth and laughter, excellent recreation in an 
interval from business. But this is a trifle compared 
with what follows. It is painful to be the subject of 
ridicule ; and to punish with ridicule the man who is 
guilty of an absurdity, tends to put him more on his 
guard in time to come. It is well ordered, that even 
the most innocent blunder is not committed with im- 
punity ; because, were errors licensed where they do 
no hurt, inattention would grow into habit, and be the 
occasion of much hurt. 



84 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 



REVIEW. 

In what senses is man superior to the brute ? 

What inference is drawn from this ? 

What do congruity and propriety imply ? 

Among what objects is there no congruity ? 

Among what objects does it exist? 

Is the perception of congruity and propriety natural ? 

To what is congruity proportioned ? 

How is it distinguished from beauty ? 

How from propriety ? 

What relation furnishes many examples of congruity ? 

Give examples. 

Does congruity regulate the kind of ornament ? 

Give examples. 

Where do we require the strictest conformity ? 

What is affectation ? 

How is a gross impropriety punished ? 

How slighter ones ? 

To what is the epithet ridiculous applied ? 

What are the uses of the sense of impropriety ? 



CHAPTER XI. 

Dignity and Grace. 

Dignity and meanness are terms applied to man in 
point of character, sentiment and behavior, and are 
never applicable to inanimate objects : a palace may 
be lofty or grand, but it is not said to have dignity ; 
a shrub is little, but not mean. Human actions are 
grand or little, as they appear in different lights : with 
respect to their author, they are proper or improper ; 
with respect to those affected by them, just or unjust; 
and they are further distinguished by dignity or mean- 
ness ; the former coincides with grandeur, the latter 
with littleness. The difference will be evident, upon 
reflecting that an action may be grand without being 
virtuous, and little without being faulty ; but that we 
never attribute dignity to any action but what is vir- 
tuous, nor meanness to any but what is faulty. Every 
action of dignity creates respect and esteem for the 



DIGN1TV AXD GRACE. 



85 



author ; and a mean action draws upon him contempt. 
A man is admired for a grand action, but frequently is 
neither loved nor esteemed for it ; neither is a man 
always contemned for a low or little action. The ac- 
tion of Caesar passing the Rubicon, was grand ; but 
there was no dignity in it, considering that his purpose 
was to enslave his country : Caesar, in a march, taking 
opportunity of a rivulet to quench his thirst, did a low 
action, but the action was not mean. 

As it appears to me, dignity and meanness are founded 
on a natural principle not hitherto mentioned. Man is 
endowed with a Sexse of the worth and excellence of 
his nature : he deems it more perfect than that of the 
other beings around him: and he perceives, that the 
perfection of his nature consists in virtue, particularly 
in virtues of the highest rank. To express that sense, 
the term dignity is appropriated. Further, to behave 
with dignity, and to refrain from all mean action?, is 
felt to be, not a virtue only, but a duty: it is a duty 
every man owes to himself. By acting in that manner, 
he attracts love and esteem : by acting meanly, or be- 
low himself, he is disapproved and contemned. 

Dignity and meanness are a species of impropriety, 
for actions may be proper or improper, to which dig- 
nity or meanness cannot be applied. There is no dig- 
nity in eating : revenge fairly taken is improper, but 
not mean. Every action of dignity is proper ; and 
every mean action is improper. The sense of dignity 
reaching to our pleasures and amusements, makes some 
manly, others childish. Corporeal pleasures are low ; 
those of the eye and ear, rise to dignity where their 
objects are grand and elevated. Sympathy gives its 
owner dignity ; gratitude animates the soul, but scarce 
rises to dignity. Joy bestow r s dignity where it proceeds 
from an elevated cause. Vanity is mean ; shame and 
remorse are not mean ; and pride bestows no dignity 
in the eye of a spectator. 

The final cause may be resolved into this : — In point 
of dignity, the social emotions rise above the selfish, 

H 



86 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

and much above those of the eye and ear : man is by 
his nature a social being ; and to qualify him for so- 
ciety, it is wisely contrived, that he should value him- 
self more for being social than selfish. The excellency 
of man is chiefly discernible in the great improvements 
he is susceptible of in society ; these, by perseverance, 
may be carried on progressively above any assignable 
limits ; and, even abstracting from revelation, there is 
great probability, that the progress begun here, will 
be completed in some future state. Now, as all valu- 
able improvements proceed from the exercise of our 
rational faculties, the Author of our nature, in order 
to excite us to a due use of these faculties, hath as- 
signed a high rank to the pleasures of the understand- 
ing : their utility, with respect to this life as well as a 
future, entitles them to that rank. 

We proceed to analyze grace. Graceful is an attri- 
bute ; grace and gracefulness express that attribute in 
the form of a noun. This attribute is agreeable : and 
as grace is displayed externally, it must be an object 
of one or other of our five senses. It is an object of 
sight and of hearing ; for some music is graceful ; sweet 
and easy ; and grace, like beauty, makes its constant 
appearance in company with our own species. Grace 
is inseparable from motion, as opposed to rest, and com- 
prehends speech, looks, gestures. Dignity alone, with- 
out motion, may produce a graceful appearance ; but 
still more graceful with the aid of exalted qualities. 

But this is not all. The most exalted virtues may 
be the lot of a person whose countenance has little 
expression : such a person cannot be graceful. There- 
fore, to produce this appearance, we must add another 
circumstance, namely, an expressive countenance, dis- 
playing to every spectator of taste, with life and 
energy, every thing that passes in the mind. Collecting 
these circumstances together, grace may be defined, 
that agreeable appearance which arises from elegance 
of motion, and from a countenance expressive of dig- 
nity. Expressions of other mental qualities are not 



RIDICULE. 87 

essential to that appearance, but they heighten it 
greatly. 

Of all external objects, a graceful person is the 
most agreeable. Dancing affords great opportunity 
for displaying grace, and haranguing still more. In 
vain will a person attempt to be graceful, who is de- 
ficient in amiable qualities. A man, it is true, may 
form an idea of qualities he is destitute of; and, by 
means of that idea, may endeavor to express these 
qualities by looks and gestures ; but such studied ex- 
pression will be too faint and obscure to be graceful. 

REVIEW. 

To what are the terms dignity and meanness applied ? 

With what do they coincide? 

How does a difference appear ? 

Give examples. 

To what sense is dignity appropriated ? 

Is it a duty to behave with dignity? 

Distinguish between dignity and propriety. 

Give examples. 

How are selfish and social emotions ranked ? 

In what is the chief excellence of man discernible ? 

Of what is grace an object? 

How is it defined ? 

What is most necessary m order to be graceful ? 



CHAPTER XII. 

Ridicule. 

A risible object produceth an emotion of laughter 
merely;* a ridiculous object is improper as well as 
risible, and produceth a mixed emoticn, which is 
vented by a laugh of derision or scorn.j- 

Burlesque, a great engine of ridicule, is distinguish- 
able into burlesque that excites laughter merely, and 
burlesque that provokes derision or ridicule. A grave 

* See Chap. VII. t See Chap. X. 



88 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

subject in which there is no impropriety, may be 
brought down by a certain coloring so as to be risible ; 
which is the case of Virgil Travestied and also the 
case of the Secchia Rapita :f the authors laugh first in 
order to make their readers laugh. The Lutrin is a 
burlesque poem, laying hold of a low and trifling in- 
cident, to expose the luxury, indolence, and conten- 
tious spirit of a set of monks. Boileau, the author, 
gives a ridiculous air to the subject, by dressing it in 
the heroic style, and affecting to consider it as of the 
utmost dignity and importance. In a composition of 
this kind, no image professedly ludicrous ought to find 
quarter, because such images destroy the contrast; 
and, accordingly, the author shows always the grave 
face, and never once betrays a smile. 

In burlesque that aims at ridicule, the poet ought to 
confine himself to such images as are lively, and 
readily apprehended : a strained elevation, soaring 
above an ordinary reach of fancy, makes not a plea- 
sant impression : the reader, fatigued with being al- 
ways upon the stretch, is soon disgusted : and if he 
persevere, becomes thoughtless and indifferent. Fur- 
ther, a fiction gives no pleasure unless it be painted in 
colors so lively as to produce some perception of reality; 
which never can be done effectually where the images 
are formed with labor or difficulty. For these reasons, 
I cannot avoid condemning the Batrachomuomachia, 
said to be the composition of Homer : it is beyond the 
power of imagination to form a clear and lively image 
of frogs and mice acting with the dignity of the highest 
of our species. 

The Rape of the Lock, clearly distinguishable from 
those now mentioned, is not properly a burlesque per- 
formance, but a heroi-comical poem: it treats a gay 
and familiar subject with pleasantry, and with a mod- 
erate degree of dignity: the author puts not on a mask 
like Boileau, nor professes to make us laugh like Tas 

* Scarron t Tassoni. 



RIDICULE. 89 

soni. The Rape of the Lock is a genteel species of 
writing, pleasant or ludicrous without having ridicule 
for its chief aim; giving way however to ridicule 
where it arises naturally from a particular character, 
such as that of Sir Plume. Addison's Spectator upon 
the exercise of the fan* is extremely gay and ludi- 
crous, resembling in its subject the Rape of the Lock. 

Humor belongs to the present chapter, because it is 
connected with ridicule. Humor in writing is very 
different from humor in character. When an author 
insists upon ludicrous subjects with a professed pur- 
pose to make his readers laugh, he may be styled a 
ludicrous ur iter ; but is scarce entitled to be styled a 
writer of humor. This quality belongs to an author, 
who, affecting to be grave and serious, paints his ob- 
jects in such colors as to provoke mirth and laughter. 
A writer that is really an humorist in character, does 
this without design: if not, he must affect the charac- 
ter in order to succeed. Swift and Fontaine, were 
humorists in character, and their writings are full of 
humor. Addison was not a humorist in character ; 
and yet in his prose writings a most delicate and refined 
humor prevails. Arbuthnot exceeds them all in drol- 
lery and humorous painting ; which shows a great 
genius, because he had nothing of that peculiarity in 
his character. 

There remains to show by examples the manner of 
treating subjects, so as to give them a ridiculous ap- 
pearance. 

Orleans. I know him to be valiant. 

Constable. I was told that by one that knows him better than 
you. 

Orleans. What's he? 

Constable. Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he car'd 
not who knew it. Hezsry V. Shakspeare. 

He never broke any man's head but his own, and that was 
against a post when he was drunk. Ibid. 

A true critic, in the perusal of a book, is like a dog at a feast, 
whose thoughts and stomach are wholly set upon what the guests 

* No. 102. 
H2 



90 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

fling away, and consequently is apt to snarl most when there are 
the fewest bones. Tale of a Tub. 

In the following instances, the ridicule arises from 
absurd conceptions in the persons introduced. 

Valentine. Your blessing, sir. 

Sir Sampson. You've had it already, sir ; I think I sent it you 
to-day in a bill for four thousand pound; a great deal of money, 
Brother Foresight. 

Foresight. Ay indeed, Sir Sampson, a great deal of money for a 
young man ; I wonder what he can do with it. 

Love for Love. — Act II. Sc. 7. 

Millament. I nauseate walking; 'tis a country diversion ; I loathe 
the country, and every thing that relates to it. 

Sir Wilful. Indeed ! ha ! look ye, look ye, you do ? nay, 'tis like 

you may here are choice of pastime here in town, as plays and 

the like ; that must be confess'd indeed. 

Millament. Ah l'etourdie ! I hate the town too. 

Sir Wilful. Dear heart, that 's much hah ! that you should 

hate 'em both! hah! 'tis like you may; there are some that can't 

relish the town, and others can't away with the country 'tis 

like you may be one of these, cousin. 

Way of the World. — Act IV. Sc. 4. 

Lord Froth. I assure you, Sir Paul, I laugh at nobody's jests 
but my own, or a lady's; I assure you, Sir Paul. 

Brisk. How? how, my Lord? what, affront my wit? Let me 
perish, do I never say any thing worthy to be laughed at ? 

Lord Froth. O foy, don't misapprehend me, I don't say so, for I 
often smile at your conceptions. But there is nothing more unbe- 
coming a man of quality than to laugh ; 'tis such a vulgar expres- 
sion of the passion ! every body can laugh. Then especially to 
laugh at the jest of an inferior person, or when any body else of 
the same quality does not laugh with one ; ridiculous. To be 
pleased with what pleases the crowd ! Now, when I laugh, I al- 
ways laugh alone. Double Dealer. — Act I. Sc. 4. 

Irony turns things into ridicule in a peculiar man 
ner : it consists in laughing at a man under disguise of 
appearing to praise or speak well of him. Swift af 
fords us many illustrious examples of that species oi 
ridicule. Take the following : 

By these methods, in a few weeks, there starts up many a wri- 
ter, capable of managing the profoundest and most universal sub- 
jects. For what though his head be empty, provided his common 
place book be full ! And if you will bate him but the circumstances 
of method, and style, and grammar, and invention ; allow him hut 
the common privileges of transcribing from others, and digressing 
from himself, as often as he shall see occasion ; he will desire n« 



RIDICULE. 91 

more ingredients towards fitting up a treatise that shall make a 
very comely figure on a bookseller's shelf, there to be preserved 
neat and clean, for a long eternity, adorned with the heraldry of 
its title, fairly inscribed on a label ; never to be thumbed or greased 
by students, nor bound to everlasting chains of darkness in a 
library ; but when the fullness of time is come, shall happily under- 
go the trial of purgatory, in order to ascend the sky.* 

A parody must be distinguished from every species 
of ridicule : it enlivens a gay subject by imitating some 
important incident that is serious. It is ludicrous, and 
may be risible; but ridicule is not a necessary ingre- 
dient. Take the following examples, the first of which 
is in imitation of Achilles' oath in Homer : 

But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear, 
(Which never more shall join its parted hair, 
Which never more its honors shall renew, 
Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew,) 
That while my nostrils draw the vital air, 
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear. 
He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spread 
The long-contended honors of her head. 

Rape of the Lock. — Canto IV. 133. 

The following imitates the history of Agamemnon's 
sceptre in Homer : 

Now meet thy fate, incens'd Belinda cried, 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side, 
(The same, his ancient personage to deck 
Her great-great grandsire wore about his neck, 
In three seal-rings ; which after, melted down, 
Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown : 
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, 
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew ; 
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, 
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) 

Ibid. — Canto V. 87. 

REVIEW. 

What are the kinds of burlesque ? 

Give examples. 

What is to be observed in the first kind of burlesque ? 

In the second ? 

What is the character given of Pope's Rape of the Lock? 

What is meant by a writer of humor ? 

Give examples. 



* Tale of a Tub, sect. 7. 



92 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Give examples where the ridicule arises from absurd concep 
tions in the persons introduced. 
What is irony ? 
Give an example. 
What is a parody ? 
Give examples. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Wit. 

Wit is a quality of certain thoughts and expressions : 
the term is never applied to an action nor a passion, 
and as little to an external object. The term wit is 
appropriated to such thoughts and expressions as are 
ludicrous, and occasion some degree of surprise by 
their singularity. Wit, in a figurative sense, expresses 
a talent for inventing ludicrous thoughts or expres- 
sions : hence we say, a witty man, or a man of wit. 

Wit is distinguished into two kinds: wit in the 
thought, and wit in the words or expression. Again, 
wit in the thought is of two kinds : ludicrous images, 
and ludicrous combinations of things that have little 
or no natural relation. 

Wit in the thought may be defined " a junction of 
things by distant and fanciful relations, which surprise 
because they are unexpected." The following is a 
proper example : 

We grant, although he had much wit, 
He was very shy of using it, 
As being loath to wear it out; 
And therefore bore it not about, 
Unless on holidays, or so, 
As men their best apparel do. 

Hudibras. — Canto I. 

Wit is of all the most elegant recreation : the image 
enters the mind with gaiety, and gives a sudden flash, 
which is extremely pleasant. Wit thereby gently ele- 
vates without straining, raises mirth without dissolute 
ness, and relaxes while it entertains. 



wit. 93 

I proceed to examples of wit in the thought ; and 
first, of ludicrous images. 

FalstafF, speaking of his taking Sir John Coleville 

of the Dale : — 

Here he is, and here I yield him ; and I beseech your Grace, 
let it be book'd with the rest of this day's deeds ; or I will have 
it in a particular ballad else, with mine own picture on the top 
of it, Coleville kissing my foot : to the which course if I be en- 
forc'd, if you do not all show like gilt twopences to me; and 
I, in the clear sky of fame, o"ershine you as much as the full moon 
doth the cinders of the element, which show like pins' heads to 
her ; believe not the word of the noble. Therefore let me have 
right, and let desert mount. 

Secoxd Part He>-ry IV.— Act. IV. Sc. 3. 

I knew, when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but 
when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but 
of an if; as, if you said so, then I said so ; and they shook hands, 
and swore brothers. Your if is the only peace-make** ; much vir- 
tue is in if. Shakspeare. 

The war hath introduced abundance of polysyllables, which will 
never be able to live many more campaigns. Speculations, ope- 
rations, preliminaries, ambassadors, palisadoes, communication, 
circumvallation, battalions, as numerous as they are, if they attack 
us too frequently in our coffee-houses, we shall certainly put them 
to flight, and cut off the rear. Tatler, No. 230. 

Speaking of Discord : 

She never went abroad, but she brought home such a bundle of 
monstrous lies, as would have amazed any mortal, but such as knew 
her; of a whale that had swallowed a fleet of ships; of the lions 
bein£ let out of the Tower to destroy the Protestant Religion ; of 
the P'ope's being seen in a brandy-shop at Wapping, &c. 

History of Jony Bull. — Part I. Ch. 16. 

Wit in the thought, or ludicrous combinations and 
oppositions, may be traced through various ramifica- 
tions. And, first, fanciful causes assigned that have 
no natural relation to the effects produced : 

The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty, 
For want of fighting was ^rown rusty, 
And ate into iFself, for lack 
Of somebody to hew and hack. 
The peaceful scabbard where it dwelt, 
The rancor of its edge had felt : 
For of the lower end two handful 
It had devoured, 'twas so manful; 
And so much scorn'd to lurk in case 
As if it durst not show its face. 

Hudibras.— Canto I. 



94* ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Belinda. He has so pester'd me with flames and stuff— I think 
I sha'n't endure the sight of a fire this twelvemonth. 

Old Bachelor. — Act II. Sc. 8. 

Fanciful reasoning : 

Falstaff. Embowell'd ! if thou embowel me to-day, I'll give 

you leave to powder me, and eat me too, to-morrow! 'Sblood, 'twas 
time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot 
and lot too. Counterfeit ! I lie, I am no counterfeit ; to die is to 
be a counterfeit ; for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath 
not the life of a man ; but to counterfeit dying, when a man there- 
by liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image 
of life indeed. First Part Henry IV. — Act V. Sc. 4. 

Clown. And the more pity that great folk should have counte- 
nance in this world to drown or hang themselves, more than their 
even Christian. Hamlet. — Act V. Sc. 1. 

Pedro. Will you have me, Lady ? 

Beatrice. No, my Lord, unless I might have another for work- 
ing-days. Your Grace is too costly to wear every day. 

Much ado about Nothing. — Act II. Sc. 1. 

In western climes there is a town, 

To those that dwell therein well known ; 

Therefore there needs no more be said here, 

We unto them refer our reader : 

For brevity is very good 

When w' are, or are not understood. 

Hudibras. — Canto I. 

Ludicrous junction of small things with great, as of 

equal importance : 

This day black omens threat the brightest fair 

That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care : 

Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight ; 

But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night : 

Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law ; 

Or some frail china jar receive a flaw ; 

Or stain her honor, or her new brocade ; 

Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade ; 

Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball ; 

Or whether heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. 

Rape of the Lock. — Canto II. 101. 

One speaks the glory of the British queen, 
And one describes a charming Indian screen. 

Ibid.— Canto III. 13 
Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, 
And screams of horror rend th r affrighted skies. 
Not louder shrieks to pitying heav'n are cast, 
When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their last, 
Or when rich china vessels, fall'n from high, 
In glitt'ring dust and painted fragments lie ! 

Ibid. — Canto III. 155. 



wit. 95 

Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive. 
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, 
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, 
Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss, 
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, 
Not Cynthia when her manteau 's pinn'd awry, 
E'er felt such rage, resentment and despair, 
As thou, sad virgin ! for thv ravish'd hair. 

Ibid.— Canto IV. 3. 

We proceed now to what is verbal only, a play of 
words. This sort of wit depends, for the most part, 
upon choosing a word that hath different significations; 
by that artifice, tricks are played in language, and 
plain thoughts take a different appearance. Play is 
necessary for man, in order to refresh him after labor ; 
and man loves play, even to a play of words : and it is 
happy for us, that words can be employed for our 
amusement. This amusement unbends the mind, and 
is relished by some at all times, and by all at some 
times. 

This low species of wit has among all nations been 
a favorite entertainment, in a certain stage of their 
progress toward refinement of taste and manners, and 
has gradually gone into disrepute. As soon as a lan- 
guage is formed into a system, and the meaning of 
words is ascertained with tolerable accuracy, opportu- 
nity is afforded for expressions that, by the double 
meaning of some words, give a familiar thought the 
appearance of being new ; and the penetration of the 
reader or hearer is gratified in detecting the true sense 
disguised under the double meaning. That this sort 
of wit was in England deemed a reputable amusement, 
during the reigns of Elizabeth and James L, is vouched 
by the works of Shakspeare, and even by the writings 
of grave divines. But it cannot have any long endur- 
ance ; for as language ripens, and the meaning of words 
is more and more ascertained, words held to be synony- 
mous, diminish daily ; and when those that remain 
have been more than once employed, the pleasure van- 
isheth with the novelty. 



90 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

The following examples are distributed into differ- 
ent classes. 

A seeming resemblance from the double meaning of 
a word : 

Beneath this stone my wife doth lie ; 
She 's now at rest, and so am I. 

Other seeming connexions from the same cause : 

Will you employ your conqu'ring sword, 
To break a fiddle, and your word ? 

Hudibras, Canto 2. 

To whom the knight with comely grace 
Put off his hat to put his case. 

Ibid. Part III. Canto 3, 

Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey, 
Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes tea. 

Rape of the Lock, Canto 3. 1. 5. 

O'er their quietus where fat judges doze, 
And lull their cough and conscience to repose. 

Dispensary, Canto 1. 

Speaking of Prince Eugene : 

This general is a great taker of snuff as well as of towns. 

Pope, Key to the Lock. 

A seeming opposition from the same cause : 

So like the chances are of love and war, 
That they alone in this distinguish'd are ; 
In love the victors from the vanquish'd fly, 
They fly that wound, and they pursue that die. 

Waller* 

What new-found witchcraft was in thee, 

With thine own cold to kindle me ? 

Strange art ; like him that should devise 

To make a burning-glass of ice. Cowley. 

Wit of this kind is unsuitable in a serious poem ; as 
in the following line in Pope's Elegy to the memory of 
an unfortunate lady : 

Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before. 

This sort of writing is finely burlesqued by Swift : 

Her hands, the softest ever felt, 

Though cold would burn, though dry would melt. 

Stkephon and Chloe. 



wit. 97 

Taking a word in a different sense from what is 

meant, comes under wit, because it occasions some 

slight degree of surprise : 

Falstqff. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. 
Pistol. Two yards and more. 

Faistaff. No quips, now, Pistol: indeed I am in the waist two 
yards about ; but I am now about no waste ; I am about thrift. 
Merry Wives op Windsor. — Act I. Sc. 3. 

Sands. By your leave, sweet ladies, 

If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me : 
I had it from my father. 

Anne Bullen. Was he mad, sir? 

Sands. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too; 

But he would bite none 

King Henry VIII. — Act I. Sc. 4. 

An assertion that bears a double meaning, one right, 
one wrong, but so introduced as to direct us to the 
wrong meaning, is a species of spurious wit, which is 
distinguished from all others by the name pun. For 
example, 

Chief Justice. Well ! the truth is, Sir John, you live in great 
infamy. 

Faistaff. He that buckles him in my belt cannot live in less. 

Chief Justice. Your means are very slender, and your waste is 
great. 

Faistaff. I would it were otherwise : I would my means were 
greater, and my waist slenderer. 

Second Part Henry IV. — Sc. 2. 

He that imposes an oath makes it, 
Not he that for convenience takes it ; 
Then how can any man be said 
To break an oath he never made ? 

Hudibras, Part II. Canto 2. 

Though playing with words is a mark of a mind at 
ease, and disposed to any sort of amusement, we must 
not thence conclude that playing with words is always 
ludicrous. Words are so intimately connected with 
thought, that if the subject be really grave, it will not 
appear ludicrous even in that fantastic dress. I am, 
however, far from recommending it in any serious 
performance: on the contrary, the discordance be- 
tween the thought and expression must be disagree- 
able ; witness the following specimen. 

I 



yo ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

He hath abandoned his physicians, madam, under whose prac- 
tices he hath persecuted time with hope ; and finds no other ad- 
vantage in the process, but only the losing of hope by time. 

All's well that ends well. — Act I. Sc. I. 

K. Henry. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! 
When that my care could not withhold thy riots, 
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? 

Second Part Henry IV. — Act IV. Sc. 4. 

There is a third species of wit, different from those 
mentioned, consisting in sounds merely. Many of Hu- 
dibras's double rhymes come under the definition of 
wit given in the beginning of this chapter : they are 
ludicrous, and their singularity occasions some degree 
of surprise. Swift is no less successful than Butler in 
this sort of wit : witness the following instances : God- 
dess — Bodice. Pliny — JVicolini. Iscariots — Chariots. Mi- 
tre— -Nitre. Dragon — Suffragan. 

A repartee may happen to be witty ; but it cannot 
be considered as a species of wit, because there are 
many repartees extremely smart, and yet extremely 
serious. 

REVIEW. 

How is the term wit applied ? 

How many kinds of wit are there ? 

How may wit in the thought be denned? 

Give an example. 

What is the effect of wit ? 

Give examples of ludicrous imager. 

Give an example of fanciful causes assigned that have no natu- 
ral relation to the effects produced. 

Give examples of fanciful reasoning. 

Give examples of the ludicrous junction of small things with 
great, as of equal importance. 

Upon what does the wit of a play of words depend ? 

In what period in a nation's literature, does this kind of wit be- 
come popular ? 

Give an example of a seeming resemblance from a double 
meaning — of other seeming connexions from the same cause — 
of seeming opposition from the same cause. 

Is wit of this kind suitable in a serious poem ? 

Give examples of taking a word in a different sense from what 
is meant ? 

Give examples of the pun. 

Is this genuine wit ? 

Is the play upon words always ludicrous ? 



CUSTOM AND HABIT. 99 



Is it proper in serious writing ? 

What is the third species of wit mentioned ? 

Is a repartee always witty ? 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Custom and Habit. 



(Custom respects the action, habit the agent. By 
cmtom we mean a frequent reiteration of the same 
act ; and by habit, the effect that custom has on the 
agent. This effect may be either active, witness the 
dexterity produced by custom in performing certain 
exercises ; or passive, as when a thing makes an im- 
pression on us different from what it did originally. 
The latter only, as relative to the sensitive part of 
our nature, comes under the present undertaking. 

This subject is intricate : some pleasures are forti- 
fied by custom ; and yet custom begets familiarity, 
and consequently indifference ; in many instances, sa- 
tiety and disgust are the consequences of reiteration : 
again, though custom blunts the edge of distress and 
of pain, yet the want of any thing to which we have 
been long accustomed, is a sort of torture. A clew to 
guide us through all the intricacies of this labyrinth, 
would be an acceptable present. 

Whatever be the cause, it is certain that we are 
much influenced by custom: it hath an effect upon 
our pleasures, upon our actions, and even upon our 
thoughts and sentiments. Habit makes no figure 
during the vivacity of youth : in middle age it gains 
ground ; and in old age governs without control. In 
that period of life, generally speaking, we eat at a 
certain hour, take exercise at a certain hour, go to 
rest at a certain hour — all by the direction of habit. A 
walk upon the quarter-deck, though intolerably con- 
fined, becomes however so agreeable by custom, that 
a sailor, in his walk on shore, confines himself commonly 



100 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. 

within the same bounds. I knew a man who had 
relinquished the sea for a country life : in the corner 
of his garden he reared an artificial mount with a 
level summit, resembling most accurately a quarter- 
deck, not only in shape but in size; and here he 
generally walked. In Minorca, Governor Kane made 
an excellent road the whole length of the island ; and 
yet the inhabitants adhere to the old road, though not 
only longer but extremely bad.* Play and gaming, at 
first an amusement, grow into a habit ; but to intro- 
duce an active habit, length of time is necessary. 

Affection and aversion, as distinguished from passion, 
and original disposition, are habits respecting particu- 
lar objects, acquired in the manner above set forth. 
The pleasure of social intercourse, originally faint, 
but frequently reiterated, establishes the habit of af- 
fection. Affection thus generated, whether it be friend- 
ship or love, seldom swells into any tumultuous passion; 
but is the strongest cement that can bind two indi- 
viduals of the human species. In like manner, a 
slight degree of disgust often reiterated grows into the 
habit of aversion, which commonly subsists for life. 

Objects of taste that are delicious, far from tending 
to become habitual, are apt, by indulgence, to produce 
satiety and disgust : no man contracts a habit of sugar, 
honey, or sweetmeats, as he doth of tobacco. And the 
same observation holds with respect to all objects that 
being disagreeable raise violent passions. A variety 
in the objects of amusement prevents a habit as to 
any one in particular ; but as the train is uniform with 
respect to amusement, the habit is formed accordingly : 
we call it generic, as opposed to the former, which is 



* Custom is a second nature. Formerly, the merchants of 
Bristol had no place for meeting but the street, open to every va- 
riety of weather. An Exchange was erected for them with con- 
venient piazzas: but so riveted were they to their accustomed 
place, that in order to dislodge them, the magistrates were forced 
to break up the pavement, and to render the place a heap of rough 
stones. 



CUSTOM AND HABIT. 101 

said to be specific habit. These, however, are closely 
blended. Satiety and disgust have no effect, except 
as to that thing singly which occasions them ; hence 
it is easy to account for a generic habit in any intense 
pleasure. 

The changes made in forming habits are curious. 
Moderate pleasures are augmented by reiteration, till 
they become habitual ; and then are at their height ; 
but they are not long stationary ; for from that point 
they gradually decay, till they vanish altogether. The 
pain occasioned by want of gratification, runs a differ- 
ent course : it increases uniformly ; and at last be- 
comes extreme, when the pleasure of gratification is 
reduced to nothing : 

It so falls out, 
That what we have we prize not to the worth, 
While we enjoy it ; but being lack'd and lost, 
Why then we rack the value ; then we find 
The virtue that possession would not show us 
Whilst it was ours. 

Much ado about Nothing. — Act IV. Sc. 1. 

The effect of custom, with relation to a specific 
habit, is displayed through all its varieties in the use 
of tobacco. The taste of that plant is at first ex- 
tremely unpleasant : our disgust lessens gradually, till 
it vanish altogether; at which period the taste is 
neither agreeable nor disagreeable : we continue to 
relish it till we arrive at perfection. When the habit 
is acquired in its greatest vigor, the relish is gone. We 
take snuff without being conscious of the operation. 

The power of custom is a happy contrivance for 
our good; satiety checks pleasures that would dis- 
qualify us for business ; and custom puts the rich and 
poor on a level ; for all abandon to the authority of 
custom things that Nature hath left indifferent. Pro- 
ceeding to matters of taste, where there is naturally 
a preference of one thing before another, it is certain 
that our faint and more delicate feelings are readily 
susceptible of a bias from custom ; and it is no proof 
4sf a defective taste to find these in some measure in- 

12 



102 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

fluenced by custom. Dress, and the modes of exter- 
nal behavior, are regulated by custom in every coun- 
try : the deep red or vermilion with which the ladies 
in France cover their cheeks, appears to them beauti- 
ful in spite of nature : and strangers cannot altogether 
be justified in condemning that practice, considering 
the lawful authority of custom, or of the fashion, as it 
is called : it is told of the people who inhabit the skirts 
of the Alps facing the north, that the swelling they 
have universally in the neck is to them agreeable;. So 
far has custom power to change the nature of things, 
and to make an object originally disagreeable, take on 
an opposite appearance. 

But, as to every particular that can be denominated 
proper or improper, right or wrong, custom has little 
authority, and ought to have none. The principle of 
duty takes place of every other; and it r^rgues a 
shameful weakness of mind, to find it in\N|pcase so 
far subdued as to submit to custom. 

These few hints may enable us to judge in some 
measure of foreign manners, whether exhibited by 
foreign writers or our own. A comparison between 
the ancients and the moderns was some time ago a fa- 
vorite subject ; those who declared for ancient man- 
ners thought it sufficient that these manners were 
supported by custom : their antagonists, on flie other 
hand, refusing submission to custom as a standard of 
taste, condemned ancient manners as in several in- 
stances irrational. 

REVIEW. 

How is custom distinguished from habit? 

What does custom effect ? 

What are the effects of habit at different ages ? 

Give examples of the power of long habit. 

What are affection and aversion ? 

How are they respectively formed ? 

How do you distinguish generic and specific habits? 

What is the effect of habit on moderate pleasures ? 

What is the effect of habit with relation to the taking of tobacco? 

What is the use of custom ? 



SIGNS AND EMOTIONS. 103 

Does the influence of custom or fashion on our feelings prove 
a defective taste ? 
Give examples of the power of custom on taste. 
Should custom influence morals ? 



CHAPTER XV. 

External Signs of Emotions and Passions. 

So intimately connected are the soul and body, that 
every agitation in the former produceth a visible effect 
"upon the latter. 

The external signs of passion are of two kinds ? vol- 
untary and involuntary. The voluntary signs are also 
of two kinds : some are arbitrary, some natural. Words 
are obviously voluntary signs : and they are also arbi- 
trary; excepting a few simple sounds expressive of 
certain internal emotions, which sounds being the same 
in all languages, must be the work of nature : thus 
the unpremeditated tones of admiration are the same 
in all men; as also of resentment, compassion, and 
despair. • 

The other kind of voluntary signs comprehend those 
attitudes and gestures which accompany certain emo- 
tions with uniformity; excessive joy is expressed by 
leaping ; grief by depression ; prostration and kneel- 
ing, imply veneration. Hence grief is cast down ; hu- 
mility droops ; arrogance elevates the head ; despon- 
dency reclines it on one side. The expressions of the 
hands are manifold i bv different attitudes and motions, 
they express desire, hope, fear ; they assist us in prom- 
ising, in inviting, in keeping one at a distance ; they 
are made instruments of threatening, of supplication, 
of praise, and of horror; they ?re employed in ap- 
proving, in refusing, in questioning ; in showing our 
joy, our sorrow, our doubts, our regret, our admiration. 
These expressions, so obedient to passion, are extremely 
difficult to be imitated in a calm state : the ancients, 



104 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

sensible of the advantage as well as difficulty of hav- 
ing these expressions at command, bestowed much time 
and care in collecting them from observation-, and in 
digesting them into a practical art, which was taught 
in their schools as an important branch of education. 
Certain sounds are by nature allotted to each passion 
for expressing it externally. The actor who has these 
sounds at command to captivate the ear, is mighty: if 
he also have proper gestures at command to captivate 
the eye, he is irresistible. 

The involuntary signs are of two kinds, some being 
temporary, others permanent signs of passion): and the 
natural signs and emotions are common to all men, and 
form an universal language, which influence cannot 
sophisticate, nor education render doubtful. Provi- 
dence has conferred them upon all men, as direct ave- 
nues to all hearts. 

The effects produced upon the spectator by exter- 
nal signs of passion, are productive of various emo- 
tions, tending to wise and good ends. Thus joy produces 
a cheerful emotion ; grief produces pity, rage, terror. 
Pleasant passions express themselves to the spectator 
externally, by agreeable signs ; and the external signs 
of a painful passion being disagreeable, produce a pain- 
ful emotion. The external signs of painful passions 
are some of them attractive, some repulsive. Of every 
painful passion that is also disagreeable, the external 
signs are repulsive. Painful passions that are agreea- 
ble, have external signs that are attractive ; drawing 
the spectator to them, and producing in him benevo- 
lence to the person upon whom these signs appear. 
Man is provided, by nature, with a faculty that lays 
open to him every passion, by means of its external 
expressions. External signs fix the signification of 
spoken language ; looks and gestures show whether the 
speaker be worthy of our confidence — we judge of 
character from external appearance; involuntary signs 
are incapable of deceit — the tones of the voice are 
irresistible. The dissocial passions, being hurtful by 



SIGNS OF EMOTIONS. 105 

prompting violence and mischief, are noted by the most 
conspicuous external signs, in order to put us upon our 
guard : thus anger and revenge, especially when sud- 
den, display themselves on the countenance in legible 
characters. The external signs again of every passion 
that threatens danger, raise in us the passion of fearf 
whicn frequently operating without reason or reflec- 
tion, moves us, by a sudden impulse, to avoid the im- 
pending danger. These external signs are subservient 
to morality, and this beautiful contrivance makes us 
cling to the virtuous, and abhor the wicked. Finally, 
the external signs of passion are a strong indication, 
that man is, by his very constitution, framed to be 
open and sincere. Nature herself, candid and sincere, 
intends that mankind should preserve the same char- 
acter, by cultivating simplicity and truth, and banish- 
ing every sort of dissimulation that tends to mischief. 

REVIEW. 

What is the effect of the intimate connexion of soul and body ? 
How are the external signs of passion divided? — the voluntary 
signs ? 
Are words all arbitrary ? 
What are the other voluntary signs ? 
Give examples. 

How are the hands used in expressing passions ? 
What did the ancients teach? 

How are the involuntary signs of passions distinguished ? 
How do pleasant passions express themselves ? 
How do painful ones ? 

What is the effect of the external signs of bad passions ? 
What do they prove with respect to the intentions of Nature ? 



CHAPTER XVI. 

Sentiments. 

Every thought, prompted by passion, is termed a 
sentiment. To have a general notion of the different 
passions, will not alone enable an artist to make a just 
representation of any passion : he ought, over and 



106 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

above| to know the various appearances of the same 
passion in different persons/ Passions receive a tincture 
from every peculiarity of character ; and for that 
reason it rarely happens, that a passion, in the differ- 
ent circumstances of feeling, of sentiment, and of ex- 
pression, is precisely the same in any two persons. 
Hence the following rule concerning dramatic and epic 
compositions. That a passion he adjusted to the char- 
acter, the sentiments to the passion, and the language 
to the sentiments. If nature be not faithfully copied 
in each of these, a defect in execution is perceived : 
there may appear some resemblance ; but the picture, 
upon the whole, will be insipid, through want of grace 
and delicacy. 

Each passion has a certain tone, to which every 
sentiment proceeding from it, ought to be tuned with 
the greatest accuracy. To awaken passion, a writer 
must be something more than an eye-witness of what 
he describes. 

This descriptive manner of representing passion is a 
very cold entertainment : our sympathy is not raised 
by description ; we must first be lulled into a dream 
of reality, and every thing must appear as passing in 
our sight. Unhappy is the player of genius who acts 
a capital part in what may be termed a descriptive tra- 
gedy ; after assuming the very passion that is to be 
represented, how is he cramped in action when he 
must utter, not the sentiments of the passion he feels, 
but a cold description in the language of a bystander ! 
It is that imperfection, I am persuaded, in the bulk of 
our plays, which confines our stage almost entirely to 
Shakspeare, notwithstanding his many irregularities. 
In our late English tragedies, we sometimes find senti- 
ments tolerably well adapted to a plain passion ; but 
we must not, in any of them, expect a sentiment ex- 
pressive of character ; and, upon that very account, 
our late performances of the dramatic kind are for 
the most part intolerably insipid. 

To set this matter in the clearest light, I shall add 



SENTIMENTS. 107 

example to precept. The first examples shall be of 
sentiments that appear the legitimate offspring of pas- 
sion ; to which shall be opposed what are descriptive 
only, and illegitimate : and in making this comparison, 
[ borrow my instances chiefly from Shakspeare, who 
for genius in dramatic composition stands uppermost in 
the rolls of fame. 

Sentiments dictated by a violent and perturbed pas- 
sion: 

Lear, Filial ingratitude ! 

Is it not, as if this mouth should tear this hand 
For lifting food to 't? — But I will punish home; 

No, I will weep no more. In such a night 

To shut me out ! Pour on, I will endure. 

In such a night as this ! O Regan, Goneril ! 
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all — 
O ! that way madness lies ; let me shun that ; 
IS o more of that. 

Kent, Good, my Lord, enter here. 
/ Lear, Pr'ythee, go in thyself, seek thine own ease; 

This tempest will not give me leave to ponder 
On things would hurt me more : — but I'll go in ; 

In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty 

Nay, get thee in ; FI1 pray, and then I'll sleep — 
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, 
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, 
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you 

From seasons such as these ? O I have ta'en 

Too little care of this ! Take physic, Pomp ; 
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, 
That thou may'st shake the superflux to them, 
And show the heavens more just. 

Kixg Lear. — Act III. Sc. 4. 

Sentiments arising from remorse and despair : 

Othello, Behold ! I have a weapon: 
A better never did itself sustain 
Upon a soldier's thigh. I've seen the day, 
That with this little arm, and this good sword, 
I've made my way through more impediments 
Than twenty times your stop. But, oh vain boast ! 
Who can control his fate? 'tis not so now. 
Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd. 
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, 
The very sea-mark of my utmost sail. 
Do you go back dismay'd ? 'tis a lost fear, 
Man but a rush against Othello's breast, 
And he retires. Where should Othello go ?— 



108 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Now — how dost thou look now ? O ill starr'd wench ! 
***** When we shall meet at compt, 
This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, 
And fiends will snatch at it. 

Othello. — Act V. Sc. 2. 

The sentiments here displayed flow so naturally 
from the passions represented, that we cannot conceive 
any imitation more perfect. 

In the tragedy of Cinna, ^Emilia, after the conspir- 
acy was discovered, having nothing in view but racks 
and death to herself and her lover, receives a pardon 
from Augustus, attended with the brightest circum- 
stances of magnanimity and tenderness. This is a 
lucky situation for representing the passions of sur- 
prise and gratitude in their different stages. These 
passions, raised at once to the utmost pitch, and being 
at first too big for utterance, must, for some moments, 
be expressed by violent gestures only : as soon as there 
is vent for words, the first expressions are broken and 
interrupted : at last we ought to expect a tide of in- 
termingled sentiments, occasioned by the fluctuation of 
the mind between the two passions. ^Emilia is made 
to behave in a very different manner: with extreme 
coolness she describes her own situation, as if she were 
merely a spectator, or rather the poet that takes the 
task off her hands. 

In the tragedy of Sertorius, the queen, surprised 
with the news that her lover w T as assassinated, instead 
of venting any passion, degenerates into a cool specta- 
tor, and undertakes to instruct the bystanders how a 
queen ought to behave on such an occasion. 

So much in general upon the genuine sentiments of 
passion. I proceed to particular observations. Pas- 
sions seldom continue uniform any considerable time : 
they generally fluctuate, swelling and subsiding in a 
quick succession ; and the sentiments cannot be just 
unless they correspond to such fluctuation. Accordingly, 
climax never shows better than in expressing a swel- 
ling passion : thus — 



SENTIMENTS. 109 

Oroonoko. Can you raise the dead ? 
Pursue and overtake the wings of time ? 
And bring about again, the hours, the days, 
The years, that made me happy ? 

Oroonoko. — Act II. Sc. 2. 

Almeria. How hast thou charm'd 
The wildness of the waves and rocks to this ? 
That thus relenting they have giv'n thee back 
To earth, to light and life, to love and me ? 

Mourning Bride. — Act I. Sc. 7. 

I would not be the villain that thou think'st 

For the whole space that 's in the tyrant's grasp, 

And the rich earth to boot. Macbeth. — Act IV. Sc. 3. 

The following passage expresses finely the progress 
of conviction : 

Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve 
That tender, lovely form, of painted air, 
So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks, it falls; 
I'll catch it e'er it goes,, and grasp her shade. 
'Tis life ! 'tis warm? 'tis she ! 'tis she herself! 
It is Almeria, 'tis, it is my wife ! 

Mourning Bride. — Act II. Sc. 6. 

In the progress of thought, our resolutions become 
more vigorous as well as our passions : 

If ever I do yield or give consent, 

By any action, word, or thought, to wed 

Another lord, may then just heav'n shower down, Sec. 

Mourning Bride. — Act I. Sc. 1. 

The different stages of a passion, and its different 
directions, from birth to extinction, must be carefully 
represented in their order; because otherwise the 
sentiments, by being misplaced, will appear forced and 
unnatural. Resentment, when provoked by an atro- 
cious injury, discharges itself first upon the author: 
sentiments therefore of revenge come always first, and 
must in some measure be exhausted before the person 
injured thinks of grieving for himself. In the Cid of 
Corneille, Don Diegue, having been affronted in a cruel 
manner, expresses scarce any sentiment of revenge, 
but is totally occupied in contemplating the low situa- 
tion to which he is reduced by the affront. 

K 



110 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

As the first movements of resentment are always 
directed to its object, the very same is the case of 
grief. Yet with relation to the sudden and severe 
distemper that seized Alexander bathing in the river 
Cydnus, Qaintus Curtius describes the first emotions of 
the army as directed to themselves, lamenting that 
they were left without a leader, far from home, and 
had scarce any hopes of returning in safety: their 
king's distress, which must naturally have been their 
first concern, occupies them but in the second place, 
according to that author. In the Amynta of Tasso, 
Sylvia, upon a report of her lover's death, which she 
believed certain, instead of bemoaning the loss of her 
beloved, turns her thoughts upon herself, and wonders 
her heart does not break. 

In the tragedy of Jane Shore, Alicia, in the full pur- 
pose of destroying her rival, has the following re- 
flection : — 

Oh Jealousy ! thou bane of pleasing friendship, 

Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms : 

How does thy rancor poison all our softness, 

And turn our gentle natures into bitterness ! 

See where she comes ! once my heart's dearest blessing, 

Now my chang'd eyes are blasted with her beauty, 

Loathe that known face, and sicken to behold her. 

Act III. Sc. 1. 

These are the reflections of a cool spectator. A 
passion, while it has the ascendant, and is freely in- 
dulged, suggests not to the person who feels it any sen- 
timent to its own prejudice ; reflections like the fore 
going occur not readily till the passion has spent its 
vigor. A person sometimes is agitated at once by 
different passions ; and the mind, vibrating like a pen- 
dulum, vents itself in sentiments that partake of the 
same vibration. 

Queen. Would I had never trod this English earth, 
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it ! 
Ye 've angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts. 
What shall become of me now ? wretched lady ! 
I am the most unhappy woman living. 



SENTIMENTS. Ill 

Alas ! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes ? 

[to her women 
Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, 
No friends, no hope ; no kindred weep for me, 
Almost no grave allowed me ! 

Henry VIII.— Act III. Sc. 1. 

Othello. Oh devil, devil! 
If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, 
Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. 
Out of my sight ! 

Desdemona. I will not stay t' offend you. 

Lodovico. Truly, an obedient lady : 
I do beseech your Lordship, call her back. 

Oth. Mistress 

Des. My Lord. 

Oth. What would you with her, Sir ? 

Lod. Who, I, my Lord? 

Oth. Ay ! you did wish that I would make her turn : 
Sir, she can turn and turn, and yet go on ; 
And turn again. And she can weep. Sir, weep : 
And she's obedient : as you say obedient ; 
Very obedient — proceed you in your tears — 
Concerning this, Sir — oh well-painted passion ! 
I am commanded home — get you away, 
I'll send for you anon — Sir, I obey the mandate, 

And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt ! 

[Exit Desdemona. 
Othello. — Act IV. Sc. 1. 

JEmilia. Oh ! my good Lord, I would speak a word with 

you. 

Othello. Yes, 'tis Emilia— By and by— She 's dead. 
'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death ; 
The noise was high — Ha ! no more moving ? 
Still as the grave. — Shall she come in ? — were 't good ? 
I think she stirs again — Xo — What's the best? 
If she come in, she '11 sure speak to my wife ; 
My wife ! my wife ! A\ hat wife ! I have no wife ; 
Oh insupportable ! O heavy hour! 

Othello. — Act V. Sc. 2. 

Nature, which gave us passions, and made them ex- 
tremely beneficial when moderate, intended undoubt- 
edly that they should be subjected to the government 
of reason and conscience. It is therefore against the 
order of nature, that passion in any case should take 
the lead in contradiction to reason and conscience : 
such a state of mind is a sort of anarchy, which every 
one is ashamed of, and endeavors to hide or dissemble. 
Even love, however laudable, is attended with a con- 



112 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

scious shame when it becomes immoderate ; it is cov- 
ered from the world, and disclosed only to the beloved 
object : 

O, they love least that let men know their love. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. — Act I. Sc. 2. 

Hence a capital rule in the representation of im- 
moderate passions, that they ought to be hid or dis- 
sembled as much as possible,' And this holds in an 
especial manner with respect to criminal passions: one 
never counsels the commission of a crime in plain 
terms ; the proposal must be made by hints, and by 
representing the action in some favorable light. Of 
the propriety of sentiment upon such an occasion, 
Shakspeare, in the Tempest, has given us a beautiful 
example, in a speech by the usurping Duke of Milan, 
advising Sebastian to murder his brother the King of 
Naples : 

Antonio, What might, 

Worthy Sebastian — O, what might — no more. 
And yet, methinks, I see it in thy face, 
What thou shouldst be : th' occasion speaks thee, and 
My strong imagination sees a crown 
Dropping upon thy head. Act II. Sc. 1. 

There never was drawn a more complete picture 
of this kind, than that of King John soliciting Hubert 
to murder the young Prince Arthur : 

K. John. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert, 
We owe thee much : within this wall of flesh 
There is a soul counts thee her creditor, 
And with advantage means to pay thy love. 
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath 
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. 

Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say 

But I will fit it with some better time. 
By Heaven, Hubert, I'm almost asham'd 
To say what good respect I have of thee. 

Hubert. I am much bounden to your Majesty. 

K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet 

But thou shalt have — and creep time ne'er so slow, 
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. 

I had a thing to say but let it go ; 

The sun is in the heaven ; and the proud day, 
Attended with the pleasures of the world, 
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds, 



SENTIMENTS. 113 

To give me audience. If the midnight bell 
Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth 
Sound one unto the drowsy race of night ; 
If this same were a church-yard where we stand, 
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs ; 
Or if that surly spirit Melancholy 
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy thick, 
Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, 
Making that idiot Laughter keep men's eyes, 
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, 
(A passion hateful to my purposes ;) 
Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, 
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply 
Without a tongue, using conceit alone, 
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words ; 
Then, in despite of broad-eyed watchful day, 
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts. 
But ah, I will not — Yet I love thee well ; 
And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well. 

Hubert. So well, that what you bid me undertake, 
Though that my death were adjunct to my act, 
By Heaven I'd do't. 

K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst ? 
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye 
On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend ; 
He is a very serpent in my way ; 
And, wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, 
He lies before me. Dost thou understand me ? 
Thou art his keeper. King John. — Act III. Sc. 3. 

As things are best illustrated by their contraries, I 
proceed to faulty sentiments. 

The first class contains faulty sentiments of various 
kinds ; I begin with sentiments that are faulty by be- 
ing above the tone of the passion : 

Othello. O my soul's joy ! 

If after every tempest come such calms, 
May the winds blow till they have waken'd death ! 
And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas 
Olympus high, and duck again as low 
As hell's from heaven. Othello. — Act II. Sc. 1. 

This sentiment may be suggested by violent and in- 
flamed passion, but is not suited to the calm satisfac- 
tion that one feels upon escaping danger. 

Philaster. Place me, some god, upon a pyramid 
Higher than hills of earth, and lend a voice 
Loud as your thunder to me, that from thence 
I may discourse to all the under world 
The worth that dwells in him. 

Philaster of Beaumont and Fletcher. — Act IV. 
K2 



114 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Second. Sentiments below the tone of the passion. 
Ptolemy, by putting Pompey to death, having incurred 
the displeasure of Caesar, was in the utmost dread of 
being dethroned : in that agitated situation, Corneille 
makes him utter a speech full of cool reflection, that 
is in no degree expressive of the passion. 

In Les Freres Ennemies of Racine, the second act is 
opened with a love-scene : Hemon talks to his mistress 
of the torments of absence, of the lustre of her eyes, 
that he ought to die nowhere but at her feet, and that 
one moment of absence is a thousand years. Antigone, 
on her part, acts the coquette ; pretends she must be 
gone to wait on her mother and brother, and cannot 
stay to listen to his courtship. This is odious French 
gallantry, below the dignity of the passion of love : it 
would scarce be excusable in painting modern French 
manners ; and is insufferable where the ancients are 
brought upon the stage. The manners painted in the 
Alexandre of the same author are not more just: French 
gallantry prevails there throughout. 

Third. Sentiments that agree not with the tone of 
the passion ; as where a pleasant sentiment is grafted 
upon a painful passion, or the contrary. In the fol- 
lowing instances, the sentiments are too gay for a se 
rious passion : 

No happier task these faded eyes pursue ; 
To read and weep is all they now can do. 

Eloisa to Abelard, 1. 47. 
Again : 

Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid, 

Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid ; 

They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, 

Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires ; 

The virgin's wish without her fears impart, 

Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart; 

Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, 

And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. 

Eloisa to Abelard, 1. 51. 

These tnoughts are pretty: they suit Pope, but no* 
Eloisa. 



SENTIMENTS. 115 

Satan, enraged by a threatening of the angel Ga- 
briel, answers thus : 

Then when I am thy captive talk of chains, 

Broud limitary cherub : but ere then 

Far heavier load thyself expect to feel 

From my prevailing arm, though Heaven's King 

Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy compeers, 

Us'd to the yoke, draw'st his triumphant wheels 

In progress through the road of heaven star-patfd. 

Paradise Lost. — Book IV. 

The concluding epithet forms a grand and delightful 
image, which cannot be the genuine offspring of rage. 
Fourth. Sentiments too artificial for a serious pas- 
sion. I give for the first example a speech of Percy, 
expiring : 

Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my growth : 

1 better brook the loss of brittle life, 

Than those proud titles thou hast won of me ; 

They wound my thoughts, worse than thy sword my flesh. 

But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool ; 

And time, that takes survey of all the world, 

Must have a stop.' 

First Part Henry IV. — Act V. Sc. 4. 

The sentiments of the Mourning Biide are, for the 
most part, no less delicate than just copies of nature : 
in the following exception the picture is beautiful, but 
too artful to be suggested by severe grief. 

Almeria. O no ! Time gives increase to my afflictions. 
The circling hours, that gather all the woes 
Which are difFus'd through the revolving year, 
Come heavy laden with th' oppressive weight 
To me ; with me, successively they leave 
The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares, 
And all the damps of grief, that did retard their flight. 
They shake their downy wings, and scatter all 
The dire collected dews on my poor head ; 
They fly with joy and swiftness from me. 

Act I. Sc. 1. 

In the same play, Almeria, seeing a dead body, 
which she took to be Alphonso's, expresses sentiments 
strained and artificial, which nature suggests not to 
any person upon such an occasion : 

Had they, or hearts, or eyes, that did this deed ? 
Could eyes endure to guide such cruel hands ? 



116 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Are not my eyes guilty alike with theirs, 

That thus can gaze, and yet not turn to stone? 

— I do not weep ! The springs of tears are dried, 

And of a sudden I am calm, as if 

All things were well ; and yet my husband 's murdered. 

Yes, yes, I know to mourn : I'll sluice this heart, 

The source of woe, and let the torrent loose. 

Act V. Sc. 11. 

Lady Trueman. How could you be so cruel to defer giving me 
that joy which you knew I must receive from your presence ? 
You have robb'd my life of some hours of happiness that ought to 
have been in it. Drummer. — Act V. 

Pope's Elegy to the memory of an unfortunate lady, 
expresses delicately the most tender concern and sor- 
row that one can feel for the deplorable fate of a per- 
son of worth. Such a poem, deeply serious and pa- 
thetic, rejects with disdain all fiction. Upon that ac- 
count, the following passage deserves no quarter ; for 
it is not the language of the heart, but of the ima- 
gination indulging its flights at ease ; and thence emi- 
nently discordant with the subject. It would be a still 
more severe censure, if it should be ascribed to imita- 
tion, copying indiscreetly what has been said by others : 

What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, 
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face ? 
What though no sacred earth allow thee room, 
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb? 
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest, 
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : 
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 
There the first roses of the year shall blow ; 
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade 
The ground, now sacred by thy relics made. 

Fifth. Fanciful or finical sentiments-r-sentiments 
that degenerate into point or conceit, may* amuse in 
an idle hour, but can never be the offspring of any 
serious or important passion., 

Armida's lamentation respecting her lover Rinaldo, 
is of this vicious taste : 

Queen. Give me no help in lamentation, 
I am not barren to bring forth complaints : 
All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes, 
That I, being govern'd by the wat'ry moon, 



SENTIMENTS. 117 

May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world ! 
Ah ! for my husband, for my dear lord Edward. 

Richard III.— Act II. Sc. 2. 

Jane Shore. Let me branded for the public scorn, 
Turn'd forth, and driven to wander like a vagabond, 
Be friendless and forsaken, seek my bread 
Upon the barren wild, and desolate waste, 
Feed on my sighs and drink my falling tears ; 
Ere I consent to teach my lips injustice, 
Or wrong the Orphan who has none to save him. 

Jane Shore. — Act IV 

Give me your drops, ye soft-descending rains, 

Give me your streams, ye never-ceasing springs, 

That my sad eyes may still supply my duty, 

And feed an everlasting flood of sorrow. Ibid. Act V 

Jane Shore utters her last breath in a witty con- 
ceit. 

Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace — 
'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now — 
Was there not something I would have bequeath'd you ? 
But I have nothing left me to bestow, 

Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh mercy, heav'n ! [Dies. 

Jane Shore. — Act V. 

Guilford to Lady Jane Grey, when both were con- 
demned to die : 

Thou stand'st unmov'd ; 
Calm temper sits upon thy beauteous brow ; 
Thy eyes, that flow'd so fast for Edward's loss, 
Gaze unconcern'd upon the ruin round thee, 
As if thou hadst resolv'd to brave thy fate, 
And triumph in the midst of desolation. 
Ha ! see, it swells, the liquid crystal rises. 
It starts in spite of thee — but I will catch it, 
Nor let the earth be wet with dew so rich. 

Lady Jane Grey. — Act IV. near the end. 

The concluding sentiment is altogether finical, un- 
suitable to the importance of the occasion, and even 
to the dignity of the passion of love. Corneille ob- 
serves, that if poets did not indulge sentiments more 
ingenious or refined than are prompted by passion, 
their performances would often be lowland extreme 
grief would never suggest but exclamations merely. 
This is in plain language to assert, that forced thoughts 



118 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

are more agreeable than those that are natural, and 
ought to be preferred ! ! ! 

The second class is of sentiments that may belong 
to an ordinary passion, but are not perfectly concord- 
ant with it| as tinctured by a singular character. 

If the sentiments of a passion ought to be suited to 
a peculiar character, it is still more necessary that 
actions be suited to the character. In the 5th Act 
of the Drummer, Addison makes his gardener act even 
below the character of an ignorant credulous rustic ; 
he gives him the behavior of a gaping idiot. 

The following instances are descriptions rather than 
sentiments, which compose a third class. Of this 
descriptive manner of painting the passions, there is in 
the Hippolytus of Euripides, Act V., an illustrious in- 
stance, namely, the speech of Theseus, upon hearing 
of his son's dismal exit. In Racine's tragedy of Esther, 
the queen, hearing of the decree issued against her 
people, instead of expressing sentiments suitable to 
the occasion, turns her attention upon herself, and 
describes with accuracy her own situation. 

A man stabbed to the heart in a combat with his 
enemy, expresses himself thus : 

So, now I arn at rest : 

I feel death rising higher still, and higher, 
Within my bosom ; every breath I fetch 
Shuts up my life within a shorter compass, 
And like the vanishing sound of bells, grows less 
And less each pulse, till it be lost in air. 

Dryden. 

The fourth class is of sentiments introduced too 
early or too late. 

Some examples mentioned above belong to this class. 
Add the following from Venice Preserved, Act V. at the 
close of the scene between Belvidera and her father 
Priuli. The account given by Belvidera of the danger 
she was in, and of her husband's threatening to murder 
her, ought naturally to have alarmed her relenting 
father, and to have made him express the most per- 



SENTIMENTS. 119 

turbed sentiments. Instead of which he dissolves into 
tenderness and love for his daughter, as if he had al- 
ready delivered her from danger, and as if there was 
a perfect tranquillity : 

Canst thou forgive me all my follies past? 
I'll henceforth be indeed a father; never, 
Never more thus expose, but cherish thee, 
Dear as the vital warmth that feeds my life, 
Dear as those eyes that weep in fondness o'er thee : 
Peace to thy heart ! 

Immoral sentiments exposed in their native colors, 
instead of being concealed or disguised, compose the 
fifth class. The Lady Macbeth, projecting the death 
of the King, has the following soliloquy : 

The raven himself 's not hoarse 
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 
Under my battlements. Come all you spirits 
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, 
And fill me from the crown to th' toe, top-full 
Of direst cruelty : make thick my blood, 
Stop up th' access and passage to remorse, 
That no compunctious visitiogs of nature 
Shake my fell purpose. Macbeth. — Act I. Sc. 5. 

This speech is not natural. A treacherous murder 
was never perpetrated without compunction : and that 
the lady here must have been in horrible agitation, 
appears from her invoking the infernal spirits to fill her 
with cruelty, and to stop up all the avenues to remorse. 
But in that state of mind, it is a never-failing artifice 
of self-deceit, to draw the thickest veil over the wick- 
ed action, and to extenuate it by all the circumstances 
that imagination can suggest : and if the crime can- 
not bear disguise, the next attempt is to thrust it out 
of mind altogether, and to rush on to action without 
thought. This last was the husband's method: 

Strange things I have in head, that will to hand ; 
Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. 

Act III. Sc. 4. 

The lady follows neither of these courses, but in a 
deliberate manner endeavors to fortify her heart in 
the commission of an execrable crime, without even 



120 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

attempting to color it. This is not natural. In the 
Pompey of Corneille,* Photine counsels a wicked ac- 
tion in the plainest terms without disguise. 

In the tragedy of Esther,-\ Haman acknowledges, 
without disguise, his cruelty, insolence, and pride. And 
there is another example of the same kind in the Aga- 
memnon of Seneca. J In the tragedy of Athalie,^ Ma than, 
in cool blood, relates to his friend many black crimes 
he had been guilty of, to satisfy his ambition. In Con- 
greve's Double-dealer, Maskwell, instead of disguising 
or coloring his crimes, values himself upon them in a 
soliloquy : 

Cynthia, let thy beauty gild my crimes ; and whatsoever I com- 
mit of treachery or deceit, shall be imputed to me as a merit. 

Treachery ! what treachery ? Love cancels all the bonds of friend- 
ship, and sets men right upon their first foundations. 

Act II. Sc. 8. 

In French plays, love, instead of being hid or dis- 
guised, is treated as a serious concern, and of greater 
importance than fortune, family, or dignity. The rea- 
son is, that, in the capital of France, love, by the easi- 
ness of intercourse, has dwindled down from a real 
passion to be a connexion that is regulated entirely by 
the mode or fashion. || This may in some measure ex- 
cuse their writers, but will never make their plays be 
relished among foreigners. 

The last class comprehends sentiments that are un- 
natural, as being suited to neither character nor pas- 
sion. When the fable is of human affairs, every event, 
every incident, and every circumstance, ought to be 
natural, otherwise the imitation is imperfect. But an 
imperfect imitation is a venial fault, compared with 
that of running cross to nature. In the Hippolytus of 

* Act. I. Sc. 1. f A ct II. Sc. 1. t Beginning of Act II. 

$ Act III. Sc. 3. at the close. 

II A certain author says humorously, " Les mots memes d'amour efe 
d'amant sont bannis de l'intime societe des deux sexes, et relegues avee 
ceux de chaine et de jiamme dans les Romans qu'on ne lit plus." And 
where nature is once banished, a fair field is open to every fantastic imi- 
tation, even the most extravagant. 



SENTIMENTS. 121 

Euripides,* Hippolytus, wishing for another self in his 
own situation, "How much," says he, "should I be 
touched with his misfortune !" as if it were natural to 
grieve more for the misfortunes of another than for 
one's own. 

In Moliere's VAvare,} Harpagon, being robbed of his 
money, seizes himself by the arm, mistaking it for that 
of the robber. This is so absurd as scarce to provoke 
a smile, if it be not at the author. 

Of inconsistent sentiments the following are exam- 
ples : 

Now bid me run, 
And I will strive with things impossible, 
Yea, get the better of them. 

Julius Cesar. — Act II. Sc. 2. 

Me miserable ! which way shall I fly 
Infinite wrath and infinite despair ? 
Which way I fly is hell ; myself am hell ; 
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep 
Still threatening to devour me, opens wide; 
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 

Paradise Lost. — Book IV. 

The following passages are pure rant. Coriolanus, 
speaking to his mother, 

What is this ? 

Your knees to me ? to your corrected son ? 

Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach 

Fillip the stars : then let the mutinous winds 

Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun ; 

Murd'ring impossibility, to make 

What cannot be, slight work. 

Coriolanus. — Act V. Sc. 3. 

Ccesar. Danger knows full well, 

That Caesar is more dangerous than he. 
We were two lions litter'd in one day, 
And I the elder and more terrible. 

Julius Cesar. — Act II. Sc. 2. 

Ahnahide. This day 

I gave my faith to him, he his to me. 

Almanzor. Good Heav'n, thy book of fate before me lay, 
But to tear out the journal of this day. 

* Act IV. Sc. 5. f Act IV. Sc. 7. 



122 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Or if the order of the world below, j 

Will not the gap of one whole day allow, > 

Give me that minute when she made that vow ; ' 
That minute ev'n the happy from their bliss might give, 
And those who live in grief a shorter time would live, 
So small a link if broke, th 5 eternal chain, 
Would like divided waters join again. 

Conquest of Grenada. — Act III. 

Ventidius. But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes, 
Were, sure, the chief and best of human race, 
Fram'd in the very pride and boast of Nature, 
So perfect, that the gods who form'd you, wonder'd 
At their own skill, and cried, A lucky hit 
Has mended our design. 

Dryden, All for Love. — Act I. 

Not to talk of the impiety of this sentiment, it is 
ludicrous instead of being lofty. 

The famous epitaph on Raphael is no less absurd 

than any of the foregoing passages. It is thus imitated 

by Pope, in his epitaph on Sir Godfrey Kneller : 

Living, great Nature fear'd he might outvie 
Her works ; and dying, fears herself might die. 

Such is the force of imitation; for Pope of himself 
would never have been guilty of a thought so extrava- 
gant. 

So much upon sentiments : the language proper for 
expressing them, comes next in order. 

REVIEW. 

What is a sentiment ? 

What is necessary to a just representation of any passion ? 

What is the rule in dramatic and epic compositions ? 

What is the effect of the descriptive style in tragedy? 

What renders the later British drama insipid ? 

What character does Lord Karnes give of Shakspeare ? 

What is the example given of violent and perturbed passion? — 
of sentiments arising from remorse and despair? 

What is the author's criticism on the tragedy of Cinna ? — on 
Sertorius ? 

How do passions operate ? 

What does climax best express ? 

Give examples, -r 

To what are the first feelings of resentment directed ? 

How does Corneille violate the rule which results from this ? 

To what are the first feelings of grief directed ? 

Where does Quintus Curtiu^ disregard this ? 

Where does Tasso? 



LANGUAGE OF PASSION". 123 

How is it disregarded in Jane Shore ? 

Give examples~of vibrating passions. 

What is the intention of Nature with respect to passions? 

Are they generally concealed when violent ? 

What rule results hence ? 

How does one instigate the commission of a great crime ? 

Give an example. 

What is the finest picture of this kind? 

Give examples of overstrained sentiments — of sentiments below 
the tone of passion. 

Give examples of sentiments that agree not with the tone of the 
passion. 

What fault is found with the quotation from Pope ? — from Para- 
dise Lost ? 

Give examples of sentiments too artificial for a serious passion 

What is the criticism on the passage from Pope's Elegy ? 

Give an example of fanciful or finical passions. 

What is Corneille's observation ? — is it jusj? 

What is the second class of sentiments?- 

Give some examples of the descriptive manner of painting pas- 
sions. 

What is the criticism on the passage from Venice Preserved? — 
on Lady Macbeth's speech? 

What are the other examples of this fault ? 

Give examples of unnatural sentiments. 

Give examples of inconsistent sentiments. 

Give examples of pure rant. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

Language of Passion, 

Among the particulars that compose the social part 
of our nature, a propensity (£p communicate our opin- 
ions, our emotions, and every thing that affects us, is 
remarkable.' Bad fortune and injustice affect us greatly ; 
and of these we are so prone to complain, that if we 
have no friend nor acquaintance to take part in our 
sufferings, we sometimes utter our complaints aloud, 
even where there are none to listen. This propensity 
operates not in every state of mind. A man immode- 
rately grieved, afflicts himselfjj' ejecting all consolation: 
immoderate grief is mute: complaining is struggling 
for consolation : — 



124 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

It is the wretch's comfort still to have 

Some small reserve of near and inward woe, 

Some unsuspected hoard of inward grief, 

Which they unseen may wail, and weep, and mourn, 

And glutton-like alone devour. 

Mournixg Bride.— -Act I. Sc. ] . 

When grief subsides, it then finds a tongue : we com- 
plain, because complaining disburdens the mind of its 
distress. 

(^Surprise and terror jare silent passions: they agitate 
the mind so violently as for a time to suspend the ex- 
ercise of its faculties, and among others the faculty of 
speech. 

\Love and revenge, when immoderate, are not more 
loquacious than immoderate grief>, When moderate, 
they set the tongue free, and moderate grief becomes 
loquacious: moderate love, when unsuccessful, com- 
plains ; when successful, it is full of joy, expressed by 
words and gestures. 

No passion has any long uninterrupted existence; 
thence language suggested by passion is unequal, in- 
terrupted : and during an uninterrupted fit of passion, 
we only express in words the more capital sentiments. 
In familiar conversation, one who vents every single 
thought, is justly branded with the character of loqua- 
city ; because sensible people express no thoughts but 
what make some figure : in the same manner, we are 
only disposed to express the strongest pulses of passion, 
especially when it returns with impetuosity after in 
terruption. 

The sentiments ought to be tuned to the passion, 
and the language to both. Elevated sentiments require 
elevated language : l tender sentiments, words that are 
soft and flowing ; when the mind is depressed, the sen- 
timents are expressed in words that are humble, not 
low. Words being connected with the ideas they re- 
present, the greatest harmony is required between 
them : to express an humble sentiment in high-sound- 
ing words, is disagreeable by a discordant mixture of 



LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 125 

feelings ; and the discord is not less when elevated sen- 
timents are dressed in low words. 

This however excludes not figurative expression, 
which communicates to the sentiment an agreeable 
elevatiofWs, We are sensible of an effect directly oppo- 
site, where figurative expression is indulged "beyond a 
just measure : the opposition between the expression 
and the sentiment, makes the discord appear greater 
than it is in reality. At the same time, figures are not 
equally the language of every passion : pleasant emo- 
tions elevate the mind, and vent themselves in figura- 
tive expressions ; but humbling and dispiriting passions 
speak plain. 

Figurative expressions, the work of an enlivened 
imagination, cannot be the language of anguish or 
distress. 

To preserve the aforesaid resemblance between 
words and their meaning, the sentiments of active pas- 
sions ought to be dressed in words where syllables pre- 
vail that are pronounced short or fast : for these make 
an impression of hurry and precipitation. Emotions, 
on the other hand, that rest upon their objects, are 
best expressed by words where syllables prevail that 
are pronounced long or slow. A person affected with 
melancholy, has a languid train of perceptions: the 
expression best suited to that state of mind, is, where 
words, not only of long, but of many syllables, abound 
in the composition ; and, for that reason, nothing can 
be finer than the following passage : 

In those deep solitudes, and awful cells. 
Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells, 
And ever-musing Melancholy reigns. 

Pope. — Eloisa to Abelard. 

To preserve the same resemblance, another circum- 
stance is requisite, that the language, like the emotion, 
be rough or smooth, broken or uniform. Calm and 
sweet emotions are best expressed by words that glide 
softly ; surprise, fear, and other turbulent passions, re- 
quire an expression both rough and broken. In the 

L2 



126 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

hurry of passion, one generally expresses that thing 
first which is most at heart. 

Passion has the effect of redoubling words, to make 
them express the strong conception of the mind. This 
is finely imitated in the following examples : 

Thou sun, said I, fair light ! 
And thou, enlighten'd earth, so fresh and gay ! 
Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains ! 
And ye that live, and move, fair creatures ! tell, 
Tell, tell if ye saw, how came I thus, how here- 



Paradise Lost.— Book VIII. 273 

Both have sinn'd ! but thou 
Against God only; I, 'gainst God and thee; 
And to the place of judgment will retufn. 
There with my cries importune Heaven, that all 
The sentence, from thy head remov'd, may light 
On me, sole cause to thee of all this woe ; 
Me ! me! only just object of his ire. 

Paradise Lost. — Book X. 930* 

Shakspeare, superior to all other writers in deline- 
ating passion, excels most in moulding every passion 
to peculiarity of character, and in expressing properly 
every different sentiment : he disgusts not his reader 
with declamation and unmeaning words; his sentiments 
are adjusted to the character and circumstances of the 
speaker; and the propriety is no less perfect between 
his sentiments and his diction. If upon any occasion 
he fall below himself, it is in those scenes where pas- 
sion enters not :; by endeavoring fcMraise his dialogue 
above the style of ordinary conversation, he sometimes 
deviates into intricate thought and obscure expression ; 
sometimes, to throw his language out of the familiar, 
he employs rhyme. But he had no pattern, in his own 
or in any living language, of dialogue fitted for the 
theatre. At the same time, the stream clears in its 
progress, and in his latter plays he has attained the 
purity and perfection of dialogue. One thing must be 
evident to the meanest capacity, that wherever pas- 
sion is to be displayed, nature shows itself mighty in 
him, and is conspicuous by the most delicate propriety 
of sentiment and expression 



LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 127 

That perfect harmony which ought to subsist among 
all the constituent parts of a dialogue, is a beauty no 
less rare than conspicuous. I shall therefore confine 
my quotations to the grosser errors, which every wri- 
ter ought to avoid. And, first, of passion expressed in 
words flowing in an equal course without interruption. 
In the chapter above cited, Corneille is censured for 
the impropriety of his sentiments) and, here, for the 
sake of truth, I am obliged to attack him a second 
time. Were I to give instances from that author of 
the fault under consideration, I might transcribe whole 
tragedies ; for he is no less faulty in this particular, 
than in passing upon us his own thoughts as a specta- 
tor, instead of the genuine sentiments of passion. Nor 
would a comparison between him and Shakspeare, 
upon the present article, redound more to his honor 
than the former upon the sentiments. Racine is here 
less incorrect than Corneille ; and from him therefore 
I shall gather a few instances. The first shall be the 
description of the sea-monster in his Phxzdra, given by 
Theramene, the companion of Hippolytus^Theramene 
is represented in terrible agitation. Yet he gives a 
long, pompous, connected description of that event, 
dwelling upon every minute circumstance, as if he had 
been only a cool spectator. 

The last speech of Atalide, in the tragedy of Bajazet, 
of the same author, is a continued discourse ; and but 
a faint representation of the violent passion which 
forced her to put an end to her own life. 

Corneille, however, is always sensible, generally cor- 
rect, never falls low, maintains a moderate degree of 
dignity, without reaching the sublime, paints delicately 
the tender affections, but is a stranger to the genuine 
language of enthusiastic or fervid passion. 

If, in general, the language of violent passion ought 
to be broken and interrupted, soliloquies ought to be so 
in a peculiar manner : language is intended by nature 
for society ; and a man when alone, though he always 
clothes his thoughts in words, seldom gives his words 



128 ELEMENTS OF CFJTICISM. 

utterance, unless when prompted by some strong emo- 
tion; and even then by starts and intervals only. 
Shakspeare's soliloquies may be justly established as a 
model ; for it is not easy to conceive any model more 
perfect. 

Corneille is not more happy in his soliloquies than in 
his dialogue. Take for a specimen the first scene of 
Cinna. Racine also is faulty in the same respect. His 
soliloquies are regular harangues, a chain completed 
in every link, without interruption or interval ; that 
of Antiochus in Berenice* resembles a regular plead- 
ing, where the parties display their arguments at full 
length. The following soliloquies are equally faulty : 
Bajazet, Act III. Sc. 7 ; Mithridate, Act III. Sc. 4, and 
Act IV. Sc. 5 ; Jphigenia, Act IV. Sc. 8. 

Soliloquies upon lively subjects, without any turbu- 
lence of passion, may be carried on in a continued chain 
of thought. If the sprightliness of the subject prompt 
a man to speak his thoughts in the form of a dialogue, 
the expression must be carried on without interrup- 
tion, as in a dialogue between two persons ; which jus- 
tifies FalstafPs "Soliloquy upon honor: 

What need I be so forward with Death, that calls not on me? 
Well, 'tis do matter, Honor pricks me on. But how if Honor 
prick me off, when I come on ? how then ? Can Honor set a leg ? 
No: or an arm? No: or take away the grief of a wound? No. 
Honor hath no skill in surgery, then? No. What is Honor? A 

word. — What is that word honor? Air: a trim reckoning. 

Who hath it ? He that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it ? No. 
Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then ? Yea, to the dead. But 
will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not 
suffer it. Therefore I '11 none of it : Honor is a mere scutcheon ; 
and so ends my catechism. 

Firt Part Henry IV. — Act V. Sc. 2. 

Even without a dialogue, a continued discourse may 
be justified, where a man reasons in a soliloquy upon 
an important subject ; for if in such a case it be ex- 
cusable to think aloud, it is necessary that the reason- 
ing be carried on in a chain ; which justifies that ad 

* Act I. Sc. 2. 



LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 129 

mirable soliloquy in Hamlet upon life and immortality, 
being a serene meditation upon the most interesting of 
all subjects. And the same consideration will justify 
the soliloquy that introduces the 5th Act of Addison's 
Cato. 

The next class of the grosser errors which all writers 
ought to avoid, shall be of language elevated above 
the tone of the sentiment ; of which take the following 
instances : 

Zara. Swift as occasion, I 
Myself will fly ; and earlier than the morn 
Wake thee to freedom. Now 'tis late ; and yet 
Some news few minutes past arriv'd which seem'd 

To shake the temper of the king. Who knows 

What racking cares disease a monarch's bed? 

Or love, that late at night still lights his lamp, 

And strikes his rays through dusk, and folded lids, 

Forbidding rest, may stretch his eyes awake, 

And force their balls abroad at this dead hour. 

I'll try. Mourning Bride. — Act III. Sc. 4. 

The language here is too pompous and labored for 
describing so simple a circumstance. Language too 
artificial or too figurative for the gravity, dignity, or 
importance, of the occasion, may be put in a third 
class. 

Chimene demanding justice against Rodrigue who 
killed her father, instead of plain and pathetic ex- 
postulation, makes a speech stuffed with the most arti- 
ficial flowers of rhetoric ; — than which nothing can 
be contrived in language more averse to the tone of 
the passion: it is more apt to provoke laughter than to 
inspire concern or pity. 

In a fourth class shall be given specimens of lan- 
guage too light or airy for a severe passion. 

Imaginary and figurative expressions are discordant, 
in the highest degree, with the agony of a mother, 
who is deprived of two hopeful sons by a brutal mur- 
der. The following passage is in a bad taste. 

Queen, Ah, my poor princes ! ah, my tender babes ! 
My unblown flowers, new- appearing sweets ! 
If yet your gentle souls fly in the air, 



130 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

And be not fixt in doom perpetual, 
Hover about me with your airy wings, 
And hear your mother's lamentation. 

Richard III. — Act IV. Sc. 4. 

Again, 

K. Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child. 

Constance. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, 
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, 
Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form : 
Then have I reason to be fond of grief. 

King John. — Act III. Sc. 4. 

A thought that turns upon the expression instead of 
the subject, commonly called a play of words^Xs un- 
worthy of a composition that pretends to any degree 
of elevation : thoughts of this kind make a fifth class. 

In the Amynta of Tasso,* the lover falls into a mere 
play of words, demanding how he, who had lost himself, 
could find a mistress. 

To die is to be banish'd from myself: 
And Sylvia is myself; banish'd from her, 
Is self from self; a deadly banishment ! 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. — Act III. Sc. 1. 

Countess. I pray thee, lady, have a better cheer : 
If thou engrossest all the griefs as thine, 
Thou robb'st me of a moiety. 

All's well that ends well. — Act III. Sc 2. 

K. Henry. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows ! 
When that my care could not withhold thy riots, 
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care ? 
O, thou wilt be a wilderness again, 
Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants. 

Second Part Henry IV. Act IV. Sc. 4. 

Antony, speaking of Julius Cassar : 

O world ! thou wast the forest of this hart : 
And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. 
How like a deer, stricken by many princes, 
Dost thou here lie ! 

Julius (Lesar. — Act III. Sc. 1. 

Playing thus with the sound of words is worse than 
a pun, and the meanest of all conceits. But Shak- 

* Act I. Sc. 2. 



LANGUAGE OF PASSION. 131 

speare, when he descends to a play of words, is not al- 
ways in the wrong; for it isdone sometimes to denote 
a peculiar character, as in the following passage : 

K. Philip. What say'st thou boy ? look in the lady's face. 

Lewis. I do, my lord, and in her eye I find 
A wonder, or a wondrous miracle ; 
The shadow of myself form'd in her eye ; 
Which being but the shadow of your sod, 
Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow. 
I do protest, I never lov'd myself 
Till now infixed I beheld myself 
Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye. 

Falconbridge. Drawn in the flatt'ring table of her eye ! 
Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow! 
And quarter 'd in her heart ! he doth espy 
Himself Love's traitor : this is pity now, 
That hang'd, and drawn, and quarter'd, there should be 
In such a love so vile a lout as he. 

King Joh>-. — Act II. Sc. 2. 

A jingle of words is the ^lowest species of that low 
wit, which is scarce sufferaKIe in any case, and least 
of -all in an heroic poem; and yet Milton, in some in- 
stances, has descended to that puerility : 

And brought into the world a world of woe. 

Begirt th' Almighty throne, 

Beseeching or besieging 

Which tempted our attempt 

At one slight bound high overleap'd all bound. 

With a shout 

Loud as from number without numbers. 

One would think it unnecessary to enter a caveat 
against an expression that has no meaning, or no dis- 
tinct meaning ; and yet somewhat of that kind may 
be found even among good writers. Such make a fifth 
class. 

Sebastian. I beg no pity for this mould'ring clay: 
For if you give it burial, there it takes 
Possession of your earth : 
If burnt and scatter'd in the air ; the winds 
That strew my dust, diffuse my royalty, 
And spread me o'er your clime ; for where one atom 
Of mine shall light, know there Sebastian reigns. 

Dryden, Don Sebastian King of Portugal, Act I. 



132 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Such empty expressions are finely ridiculed in the 
Rehearsal : 

Was't not unjust to ravish hence her breath. 
And in life's stead to leave us nought but death. 

Act IV. Sc. I. 

REVIEW. 

What remarkable propensity is noticed ? 

Is it the most immoderate grief which complains most? 

What passions are silent ? 

How is it with love and revenge ? 

Why should the language of passion be interrupted ? 

To what should the sentiments and language be tuned ? 

Give examples. 

What is the effect of figurative expressions? — what is their ef- 
fect when exaggerated ? 

What sort of words are used in expressing the active passions? 
— what sort for the expression of melancholy ? 

What other circumstance is requisite to preserve the resem- 
blance between the sound and the sense ? 

Give examples of passion redoubling words to express strong 
conceptions. 

In what is Shakspeare superior to all other writers ? 

In what does he excel most others ? 

Where does he occasionally fall below himself? 

What is Corneille's great fault? 

What is the criticism on a passage of Phaedra? 

What are Corneille's merits ? 

What should be the character of soliloquies ? 

Who furnishes the best models ? 

What is observed of the soliloquies of Corneille and Racine ? 

How should soliloquies on lively subjects be carried on ? 

Give an example. i 

How should soliloquies where a man reasons on an important 
subject be carried on ? 

What is the next class of errors noticed ? 

Give examples. 

What is the third class of errors ? 

Give an example. 

Give specimens of language too light for a severe passion ? 

What is remarked concerning a play of words ? 

How is Shakspeare's playing on the sound of words sometimes 
justified? 

Give an example. 

Give an example of a jingle of words — of words with no distinct 
meaning. 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 133 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Beauty of Language. 

Painting and sculpture are imitative fine arts; 
architecture and music are productive of originals : 
language resembles these last, and like them copies 
but little from nature. The beauty of language arises 
from its power of expressing thought; the beauty 
of thought makes it appear more beautiful. This 
beauty is the beauty of means fitted to an end. The 
beauty of language arises from sound; signification; 
resemblance between sound and signification ; and the 
beauties of verse and prose. 

Section I. — Beauty of Language -with respect to Sound. 

This subject requires the following order: The sounds 
of the different letters come first ; next, these sounds 
as united in syllables; third, syllables united in words; 
fourth, words united in a period ; and, in the last place, 
periods united in a discourse. The vowels are sounded 
with a single respiration; each of the vowels, a, e, i, o, 
u, sound agreeably to the ear. Consonants have no 
sound of themselves, but serve with vowels to form 
articulate sounds ; every syllable into which a conso- 
nant enters has more than one sound, though pro- 
nounced with one expiration of breath : every sylla- 
ble is composed of as many sounds as there are letters, 
supposing every letter to be distinctly pronounced. 

In inquiring how far syllables are agreeable to the 
ear, we find a double sound more agreeable than a sin- 
gle sound ; for the diphthong oi, or ai, is more agreeable 
than either of these vowels pronounced singly. Thus, 
the harmony of pronunciation differs widely from that 
of music ; since in the latter we find many sounds 
which are singly agreeable, but in conjunction dis- 
agreeable. 

M 



134 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

From syllables we proceed to words, of which the 
agreeableness or disagreeableness depends partly upon 
the effect of syllables in succession ; and principally 
from the agreeableness or disagreeableness of their 
component syllables. But different nations judge dif- 
ferently of the harshness or smoothness of articulate 
sounds. The English language is rough : the Italian 
so smooth, that vowels are frequently suppressed to 
produce a rougher and bolder tone. 

We come next to the music of words as united in a 
period. Periods may be constructed to ascend, or to 
descend, in musical harmony. The rising series, or a 
strong impulse succeeding a weak, makes double im- 
pression on the mind ; the falling series, or a weak im- 
pulse succeeding a strong, scarce any impression. 

The last article, the music of periods as united in a 
discourse, shall be dispatched in few words. By no 
other human means is it possible to present to the 
mind such a number of objects, and in so swift a suc- 
cession, as by speaking or writing ; and for that reason 
variety ought more to be studied in these, than in any 
other sort of composition. Hence a rule for arranging 
the members of different periods with relation to each 
other, that to avoid a tedious uniformity of sound and 
cadence, the arrangement, the cadence, and the length 
of the members, ought to be diversified as much as 
possible : and if the members of different periods be 
sufficiently diversified, the* periods themselves will be 
equally so. 

Section II. — The Beauty of Language with respect to 
Signification. 

The present subject divides itself into parts ; and 
what follows suggests a division into two parts. In 
every period, two things are to be regarded : first, the 
words of which it is composed ; next, the arrangement 
of these words; the former resembling the stones that 
compose a building, and the latter resembling the order 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 135 

in which they are placed. Hence the beauty of lan- 
guage with respect to signification may be distinguished 
into two kinds: first, the beauties that arise from a 
right choice of words for constructing the period; and 
next, the beauties that arise from a due arrangement 
of these words. I begin with rules that direct us to a 
right choice of words, and then proceed to rules that 
concern their arrangement. 

And with respect to the former, communication of 
thought being the chief end of language, it is a rule 
that perspicuity ought not to be sacrificed to any other 
beauty whatever: if it should be doubted whether 
perspicuity be a positive beauty, it cannot be doubted 
that the want of it is the greatest defect. Nothing 
therefore in language ought more to be studied, than 
to prevent all obscurity in the expression ; for to have 
no meaning, is but one degree worse than to have a 
meaning that is not understood. 

Want of perspicuity from a wrong arrangement, 
belongs to the next branch. Obscurity from a wrong 
choice of words is a common error among the herd of 
writers; and there maybe a defect in perspicuity 
proceeding even from the slightest ambiguity in con- 
struction ; as where the period commences with a 
member conceived to be in the nominative case, which 
afterward is found to be in the objective. Another 
error against perspicuity, and which passes with some 
writers for a beauty, is the giving different names to 
the same object, mentioned oftener than once in the 
same period. 

The next rule, because next in importance, is, that 
language ought to correspond with the subject. Heroic 
actions or sentiments require elevated language ; ten- 
der sentiments ought to be expressed in words soft and 
flowing ; and plain language void of ornament, is 
adapted to subjects grave and didactic. Language is 
the dress of thought : and where the one is not suited 
to the other, we are sensible of incongruity; as where 
a judge is dressed like a fop, or a peasant like a man of 



136 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

quality. Where the impression made by the words 
resembles the impression made by the thought, the 
similar emotions mix sweetly in the mind, and double 
the pleasure ; but where the impressions made by the 
thought and the words are dissimilar, the unnatural 
union they are forced into is disagreeable. 

This concordance between the thought and the 
words has been observed by every critic, and is so well 
understood as not to require any illustration. But 
there is a concordance of a peculiar kind, that has 
scarcely been touched upon in works of criticism, 
though it contributes to neatness of composition. It is 
what follows. In a thought of any extent, we com- 
monly find some parts intimately united, some slightly 
some disjoined, and some directly opposed to each other. 
To find these conjunctions and disjunctions imitated 
in the expression, is a beauty ; because such imitation 
makes the words concordant with the sense. Two 
members of a thought, connected by their relation to 
the same action, will be expressed by two members of 
the period governed by the same verb ; in which case 
these members, to improve their connexion, ought to 
be constructed in the same manner. This beauty is 
common among good writers. Where two ideas are so 
connected, as to require but a copulative, it is pleasant 
to find a connexion in the words that express these 
ideas, were it even so slight as where both begin with 
the same letter. 

Next as to examples of disjunction and opposition 
in the parts of the thought, imitated in the expression; 
an imitation that is distinguished by the name of an- 
tithesis. Speaking of Coriolanus soliciting the people 
to be made consul : 

With a proud heart he wore his humble weeds. 

Coriolanus. 

Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that 
Caesar were dead, to live all free men? Julius Cesar. 

Artificial connexion among words is a beauty when 
it represents any peculiar connexion among the con- 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 137 

stituent parts of the thought ; hut we ought to avoid 
every artificial opposition of words, where there is 
none in the thought. This is termed verbal antithesis, 
and is much studied by low writers. 

A fault directly opposite to that last mentioned, is 
to conjoin artificially, words that express ideas opposed 
to each other. This is a fault too gross to be in com- 
mon practice ; and yet writers are guilty of it in some 
degree, when they conjoin by a copulative things 
transacted at different periods of time. 

This rule of studying uniformity between the thought 
and expression, may be extended to the construction 
of sentences or periods. A sentence or period ought 
to express one entire thought or mental proposition ; 
and different thoughts ought to be separated in the 
expression by placing them in different sentences or 
periods. It is therefore offending against neatness, to 
crowd into one period entire thoughts requiring more 
than one ; which is joining in language things that are 
separated in reality. To crowd into a single member 
of a period different subjects, is still worse than to 
crowd them into one period. 

From conjunctions and disjunctions in general, we 
proceed to comparisons, which make one species of 
them, beginning with similies. And here, also, the in- 
timate connexion that words have with their meaning, 
requires that in describing two resembling objects, a 
resemblance in the two members of the period ought 
to be studied.; Next, as to the length of the members 
that signify the resembling objects. To produce a re- 
semblance between such members, they ought not 
only to be constructed in the same manner, but as 
nearly as possible to be equal in length. Of a com- 
parison where things are opposed to each other, it 
must be obvious, that if resemblance ought to be stu- 
died in the words which express two resembling objects, 
there is equal reason for studying opposition in the 
words which express contrasted objects. 

We proceed to a rule of a different kind. During 
M2 



138 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

the course of a period, the scene ought to be continued 
without variation : the changing from person to person, 
from subject to subject, or from person to subject, 
within the bounds of a single period, distracts the mind, 
and affords no time for a solid impression. I illustrate 
this rule by giving an example of a deviation from it. 

This prostitution of praise is not only a deceit upon the gross 
of mankind, who take their notion of characters from the learned; 
but also the better sort must, by this means, lose some part at least 
of that desire of fame which is the incentive to generous actions, 
when they find it promiscuously bestowed on the meritorious and 
undeserving. Guardian, No. 4. 

A plurality of copulatives in the same period ought 
to be avoided, except where the words are intended to 
express the coldness of the speaker ; for there the re- 
dundancy of copulatives is a beauty : 

Dining one day at an alderman 'sin the city, Peter observed him 
expatiating after the manner' of in> brethren, in the praises of his 
sirloin of beef. "Beef," said the sage magistrate, "is the king 
of meat : beef comprehends in it the quintessence of partridge, 
and quail, and venison, and pheasant, and plum-pudding, and 
custard." Tale of a Tub. § 4. 

And the author shows great delicacy of taste by 
varying the expression in the mouth of Peter, who is 
represented more animated : 

" Bread," says he, " dear brothers, is the staff of life; in which 
bread is contained, inclusive, the quintessence of beef, mutton, 
veal, venison, partridges, plum-pudding, and custard." 

The next beauty consists in a due arrangement of 
the words. In every thought there is at least one 
capital object considered as acting and suffering. This 
object is expressed by the substantive, and its action 
by the verb. Its suffering, or passive state, is ex- 
pressed by a passive verb; and the thing that acts 
upon it, by a substantive-noun. Words that import a 
relation, must be distinguished from such as do not. 
Substantives commonly imply no relation; such as 
animal, man, tree, river. Adjectives, verbs, and adverbs, 
imply a relation; the adjective good must relate to 
some being possessed of that quality; the verb write is 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 139 

applied to some person who writes ; and the adverbs 
moderately, diligently, have plainly a reference to some 
action which they modify. When a relative word is 
introduced, it must be signified by the expression to 
w T hat word it relates, without which the sense is not 
complete. When two substantives happen to be con- 
nected, as cause and effect, as principal and accessory, 
such connexion cannot be expressed by contiguity solely; 
for words must often in a period be placed together 
which are not thus related : the relation between sub- 
stantives, therefore, cannot otherwise be expressed but 
by particles denoting the relation. These words are 
called prepositions. 

Transposition and inversion, change the natural or- 
der of words in a sentence, and this license is illus- 
trated by the following examples : 

Moon that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest 
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies, 
And ye five other wand'ring fires that move 
In mystic dance not without song, resound 
His praise. 

In the following example, where the word first in- 
troduced imports relation, the disjunction will be found 
more violent. 

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
Brought death into the world, and all our woe, 
With loss of Eden, till one greater man 
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, 
Sing, heavenly muse. 

In entering on the rules of arrangement, we begin 
with the natural style, and proceed to the most in- 
verted. And in the arrangement of a period, as well 
as in a right choice of words, the first and great object 
being perspicuity, the rule above laid down, that per- 
spicuity ought not to be sacrificed to any other beauty, 
holds equally in both. Ambiguities occasioned by a 
wrong arrangement are of two sorts ; one where the 
arrangement leads to a wrong sense, and one where 
the sense is left doubtful. The first, being the more 



140 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

culpable, shall take the lead, beginning with examples 
of words put in a wrong place. 

How much the imagination of such a presence must exalt a 
genius, we may observe merely from the influence which an ordi- 
nary presence has over men. 

Characteristics, Vol. I. p. 7. 

This arrangement leads to a wrong sense : the ad- 
verb merely seems by its position to affect the prece- 
ding word : whereas it is intended to affect the follow- 
ing words, an ordinary presence ; and therefore the ar- 
rangement ought to be thus : 

How much the imagination of such a presence must exalt a 
genius, we may observe from the influence which an ordinary pre- 
sence merely has over men. [Or, better,] — which even an ordi- 
nary presence has over men. 

Example of wrong arrangement of members : 

I have confined myself to those methods for the advancement 
of piety, which are in the power of a prince limited like ours by 
a strict execution of the laws. 

A project for the advancement of religion. Swift. 

The structure of this period leads to a meaning 
which is not the author's, viz. power limited by a strict 
execution of the laws. That wrong sense is lemoved 
by the following arrangement : 

I have confined myself to those methods for the advancement of 
piety, which, by a strict execution of the laws,*are in the power 
of a prince limited like ours. •' 

Doubtful sense from wrong arrangement of mem- 
bers : 

The empire of Blefuscu is an island situated to the north-east 
side of Lilliput, from whence it is parted only by a channel of 800 
yards wide. 

Gulliver's Travels, Part 1, Chap. 5. 

The ambiguity may be removed thus : 

from whence it is parted by a channel of 800 



yards wide only 

From these examples it is plain, that a circumstance 
ought never to be placed between two capital mem- 
bers of a period. To preserve these distinct, the best 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 141 

method is, to place first in the consequent member, 
some word that cannot connect it with what precedes. 
If it be thought that the defect of perspicuity is re- 
moved by punctuation ; the answer is, that punctua- 
tion may remove an ambiguity, but will never produce 
that peculiar beauty which is perceived when the 
sense comes out clearly and distinctly by means of a 
happy arrangement. Such influence has this beauty, 
that by a natural transition of perception it is commu- 
nicated to the very sound of the words, so as in ap- 
pearance to improve the music of the period. But as 
this curious subject comes in more properly afterwards, 
it is sufficient at present to appeal to experience, that 
a period so arranged as to bring out the sense clear, 
seems always more musical than where the sense is 
left in any degree doubtful. 

A second rule is, that words expressing things con- 
nected in the thought, ought to be placed as near to- 
gether as possible. This rule is derived immediately 
from human nature, prone in every instance to place 
together things in any manner connected : where 
things are arranged according to their connexions, we 
have a sense of order ; otherwise we have a sense of 
disorder, as of things placed by chance : and we natu- 
rally place words in the same order in which we would 
place the things they signify. The bad effect of a 
violent separation of words or members thus intimately 
connected, will appear from the following examples. 

For the English are naturally fanciful, and very often disposed, 
by that gloominess and melancholy of temper which is so frequent 
in our nation, to many wild notions and visions, to which others 
are not so liable. Spectator, No. 419. 

Here the verb or assertion is, by a pretty long cir- 
cumstance, violently separated from the subject to 
which it refers : this makes a harsh arrangement the 
less excusable, for the fault is easily prevented by 
placing the circumstance before the verb, after the 
following manner. 



142 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

For the English are naturally fanciful, and, by that gloominess 
and melancholy of temper which is so frequent in our nation, are 
often disposed to many wild notions, &c. 

A pronoun, which saves the naming a person or thing 
a second time, ought to be placed as near as possible 
to the name of that person or thing. This is a branch 
of the foregoing rule . and with the reason there given 
another concurs,— viz. That if other ideas intervene, 
it is difficult to recall the person or thing by reference: 

If I had leave to print the Latin letters transmitted to me from 
foreign parts, they would fill a volume, and be a full defence against 
all that Mr. Partridge, or his accomplices of the Portugal inqui- 
sition, will be ever able to object; who, by the way, are the only 
enemies my predictions have ever met with at home or abroad. 

Better thus : 



and be a full defence against all that can be ob- 
jected by Mr. Partridge, or his accomplices of the Portugal in- 
quisition ; who, by the way, are, &c. 

To elevate or depress an object, one method is, to 
join it in the expression w T ith another that is naturally- 
high or low. 

Circumstances in a period resemble small stones in 
a building, employed to fill up vacuities among those 
of a larger size. In the arrangement of a period, such 
under-parts crowded together make a poor figure ; and 
never are graceful but when interspersed among the 
capital parts. 

Example. — It is likewise urged, that there are, by computation, 
in this kingdom, above 10,000 parsons, whose revenues, added to 
those of my Lords the Bishops, would suffice to maintain, &c. 
Argument against abolishing Christianity. Swift. 

Here two circumstances, viz. by computation, and in 
this kingdom, are crowded together unnecessarily : they 
make a better appearance separated in the following 
manner : 

It is likewise urged, that in this kingdom there are, by compu- 
tation, above 10,000 parsons, &c. 

If there be room for a choice, the sooner a circum- 
stance is introduced, the better; because circumstances 
are proper for that coolness of mind with which we 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 143 

begin a period as well as a volume : in the progress, 
the mind warms, and has a greater relish for matters 
of importance. When a circumstance is placed at the 
beginning of the period, or near the beginning, the 
transition from it to the principal subject is agreeable: 
it is like ascending, or going upward. On the other 
hand, to place it late in the period has a bad effect. 

Example. — And Philip the Fourth was obliged at last to con- 
clude a peace on terms repugnant to his inclination, to that of his 
people, to the interest of Spain, and to that of all Europe, in the 
Pyrenean treaty. 

Letters on History ', Vol. I. Let. 6. Bolingbroke. 

Better thus : 

And at last, in the Pyrenean treaty, Philip the Fourth was 
obliged to conclude a peace, &c. 

In arranging a period, it is of much importance to 
determine in what part of it a word makes the great- 
est figure ; whether at the beginning, during the course, 
or at the close. The breaking silence rouses the atten- 
tion, and prepares for a deep impression at the begin- 
ning: the beginning, however, must yield to the close; 
which being succeeded by a pause, affords time for a 
word to make its deepest impression. Hence the fol- 
lowing rule : That to give the utmost force to a pe- 
riod, it ought, if possible, to be closed with that word 
which makes the greatest figure. The opportunity of 
a pause should not be thrown away upon accessories, 
-but reserved for the principal object, in order that it 
may make a full impression; and the capital word 
should be placed in the front : as the name of a person. 

The substance of what is said in this and the fore- 
going section, upon the method of arranging words in 
a period, so as to make the deepest impression with 
respect to sound as well as signification, is compre- 
hended in the following observation : That order of 
words in a period will always be the most agreeable, 
where, without obscuring the sense, the most impor- 
tant images, the most sonorous words, and the longest 
members, bring up the rear. 

Inversion ought not to be indulged, unless in order 



144 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM* 

to reach some beauty superior to those of a natural 
style. It may with great certainty be pronounced, that 
every inversion which is not governed by this rule, will 
appear harsh and strained, and be disrelished by every 
one of taste. Hence the beauty of inversion when 
happily conducted; the beauty, not of an end, but of 
means, as furnishing opportunity for numberless orna- 
ments that find no place in a natural style : hence the 
force, the elevation, the harmony, the cadence, of some 
compositions; hence the manifold beauties of the Greek 
and Roman tongues, of which living languages afford 
but faint imitations. 

REVIEW. 

What two things are to be regarded in every period ? 

What is the first rule concerning perspicuity ? 

What should chiefly be studied in language ? 

What error against perspicuity passes with some writers for a 
beauty ? 

What rule is next in importance ? 

What concordance is mentioned which contributes to neatness 
of composition ? 

Give examples of antithesis. 

What is verbal antithesis, and by whom is it studied ? 

What is the opposite fault ? 

How should a sentence be constructed with reference to thought 
and expression ? 

How should sentences containing similies be constructed? 

What is the next rule ? 

Give an example of a deviation from it. ^^l^tt 

When should many copulatives be used? — when avoided t^sJt* a. 

What does the next beauty consist in .aft-* l& Vi r %**<*<**>*" *] 

What words commonly imply no relation? 

What words imply relation ? 

What words express relation ? 

Give examples of transposition. 
■ What are the two kinds of ambiguities occasioned by a wrong 
arrangement ? 

Give an example of the first — correct it. 

Give an example of wrong arrangement of members — correct it. 

Of doubtful sense — correct it. 

What is obvious from these examples ? 

Will punctuation entirely remedy the defect ? 

What is the second rule ? 

Give an example of its violation — correct it. 

W r hat is a branch of the foregoing rule ? 

Give an example of its violation — correct it. 

What is the rule respecting circumstances'* 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 145 

Give an example of its violation — correct it. 
In what part of a sentence should a circumstance be placed ? 
Give an example of its violation — correct it. 
What is the rule respecting the close of a sentence? _ 
Give the substance of this and the foregoing sections in a single 
observation. 
W hat is the rule concerning inversion ? 
What is observed of inversion in the Greek and Roman tongues ? 

Section III. — Beauty of Language from a resemblance 
between Sound and Signification. 

This beauty has escaped none of our critical writers. 

There being frequently a strong resemblance of one 

sound to another, it will not be surprising to find an 

articulate sound resembling one that is not articulate : 

thus the sound of a bow-string is imitated by the words 

that express it : 

The string let fly, 
Twanged short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry. 

Odyssey, xxi. 449. 

On this principle, falling timber is said to crash, and 
wind to whistle; thus, causes that have no resemblance, 
may produce resembling effects ; and by a number of 
syllables in succession, an emotion is sometimes raised 
similar to that caused by successive motion ; as walk- 
ing, galloping, running, can be imitated by a succession 
of long or short syllables, or by a due mixture of both. 
For example, slow motion may be justly imitated in a 
verse where long syllables prevail; especially when 
aided by a slow pronunciation. A line composed of 
monosyllables makes an impression, by the frequency 
of its pauses, similar to what is made by laborious, in- 
terrupted motion : 

With many a weary step, and many a groan, 
Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone. 

Odyssey, xi. 736. 
First march the heavy mules securely slow ; 
O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks, they go. 

Iliad, xxiii. 138. 

The impression made by rough sounds in succession, 
resembles that made by rough or tumultuous motion : 
on the other hand, the impression of smooth sounds 

N 



146 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

resembles that of gentle motion. The following is an 

example of both : 

Two craggy rocks projecting to the main, 
The roaring wind's tempestuous rage restrain ; 
Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide, 
And ships secure without their halsers ride. 

Odyssey, iii. 118. 

Prolonged motion is expressed in an Alexandrine line, 
and forcible prolonged motion in the same ; and a pe- 
riod consisting mostly of long syllables, produces an 
emotion resembling faintly that which is produced by 
gravity and solemnity. 

A slow succession of ideas is a circumstance that be- 
longs equally to settled melancholy, and to a period 
composed of polysyllables pronounced slow ; and hence, 
by similarity of emotions, the latter is imitative of the 
former : 

In those deep solitudes, and awful cells, 
Where heavenly-pensive Contemplation dwells, 
And ever-musing Melancholy reigns. 

Pope. — Eloisa to Melard. 

A long syllable made short, or a short syllable made 
long, raises, by the difficulty of pronouncing contrary 
to custom, a feeling similar to that of hard labor : 

When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
The line too labors, and the words move slow. 

Essay on Crit. 370. 

Harsh or rough. words pronounced with difficulty, 

excite a feeling similar to that which proceeds from 

the labor of thought to a dull writer : 

Just writes to make his barrenness appear. 

And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a-year. 

Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, 1. 181. 

It belongs to the present subject to observe, that 
when these coincide in the same passage, the concord- 
ance of sound and sense is delightful : the reader is 
conscious not only of pleasure from the two climaxes 
separately, but of an additional pleasure from their 
concordance, and from finding the sense so justly imi- 
tated by the sound. 

The concord between sense and sound is no less 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 147 

agreeable in what may be termed an anticlimao^where 
the progress is from great to littld ; for this has the 
effect tojjnake diminutive objects appear still more di- 
minutive! 

Pronunciation, therefore, may be considered as a 
branch of the present subject ; and with some obser- 
vations upon it, the section shall be concluded. 

In order to give a just idea of pronunciation, it must 
be distinguished from singing. The latter is carried 
on by notes, requiring each of them a different aper- 
ture of the windpipe : the notes properly belonging to 
the former, are expressed by different apertures of the 
mouth, without varying the aperture of the windpipe. 
This, however, doth not hinder pronunciation to bor- 
row from singing, as one sometimes is naturally led to 
do, in expressing a vehement passion. 

In reading, as in singing, there is a key-note. Above 
this note the voice is frequently elevated, to make the 
sound correspond to the elevation of the subject : but 
the mind in an elevated state is disposed to action; 
therefore, in order to a rest, it must be brought down 
to the key-note. Hence the term cadence. 

The only general rule that- can be given for direct- 
ing the pronunciation, is^To sound the words in such 
a manner as to imitate the things they signify^ 

REVIEW. 

Give examples of resemblance between sound and signification. 

How is slow motion imitated ? — laborious, interrupted motion ? — 
rough, tumultuous motion ? — prolonged motion ? — a slow succession 
of ideas ? — hard labor ? — labor of thought ? 

What is anticlimax ? — what is its effect ? 

What is the general rule for pronunciation ? 

Section - IV. — Versification. 

To explain the music of verse, several nice and deli- 
cate feelings must be employed, and the distinction 
between it and prose arises from the difference of the 
melody, though that difference cannot with any accu- 



148 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

racy be explained in words ; all that can be said, is, 
that verse is more musical than prose, and its melody- 
more perfect. The difference between verse and prose, 
resembles the difference, in music properly so called, 
between the song and the recitative : and the resem- 
blance is not the least complete, that these differences, 
like the shades of colors, approximate sometimes so 
nearly as scarce to be discernible : the melody of a 
recitative approaches sometimes to that of a song; 
which, on the other hand, degenerates sometimes to 
that of a recitative. Nothing is more distinguishable 
from prose, than the bulk of Virgil's hexameters: many 
of those composed by Horace, are very little removed 
from prose : Sapphic verse has a very sensible melody: 
that, on the other hand, of an Iambic, is extremely 
faint. 

This more perfect melody of articulate sounds, is 
what distinguisheth verse from prose. Verse is sub- 
jected to certain inflexible laws : the number and va- 
riety of the component syllables being ascertained, and 
in some measures the order of succession. 

To verse of every kind, five things are of impor- 
tance. 1st. The number of syllables that compose a 
verse line. 2d. The different lengths of syllables, i. e. 
the difference of time taken in pronouncing. 3d. The 
arrangement of these syllables combined in words. 4th. 
The pauses or stops in pronouncing. 5th. The pro- 
nouncing syllables in a high or low tone. The three 
first mentioned are essential to verse : if any of them 
be wanting, there cannot be that melody which dis- 
tinguisheth verse from prose. To give a just notion 
of the fourth, it must be observed, that pauses are ne- 
cessary for three different purposes : one, to separate 
periods, and members of the same period, according to 
the sense ; another, to improve the melody of verse ; 
and the last, to afford opportunity for drawing breath 
in reading. A pause of the first kind is variable, being 
long or short, frequent or less frequent, as the sense 
requires. A pause of the second kind, being deter- 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 149 

mined by the melody, is not arbitrary. The last sort 
is arbitrary, depending on the reader's command of 
breath. With respect then to the pauses of sense and 
of melody, it may be affirmed that their coincidence 
in verse is a capital beauty ; but as it cannot be ex- 
pected that every line should be so perfect, the pause 
necessary for the sense must often be sacrificed to the 
verse pause, and the latter sometimes to the former. 

The pronouncing syllables in a high or low tone, 
contributes also to melody. In reading either prose or 
verse, a certain tone is assumed, which may be called 
the key-note ; and in that tone the bulk of the words 
are sounded. Sometimes to humor the sense, and some- 
times the melody, a particular syllable is sounded in a 
higher tone ; and this is termed accenting a syllable, or 
gracing it with an accent. Opposed to the accent, is 
the cadence, one of the requisites of verse, because it 
is regulated by the sense, and hath no peculiar rela- 
tion to verse. The cadence is a falling of the voice 
below the key-note at the close of every period ; and 
so little is it essential to verse, that in correct reading 
the final syllable of every line is accented, that sylla- 
ble only excepted which closes the period, where the 
sense requires a cadence. 

Though the five requisites above-mentioned are gov- 
erned by different rules, peculiar to each species, upon 
quantity only one general observation may be premised, 
because it is applicable to every species of verse : That 
syllables, with respect to the time taken in pronounc- 
ing, are long or short ; two short syllables, with respect 
to time, being precisely equal to a long one. These 
two lengths are essential to verse of all kinds ; and to 
no verse is a greater variety of time necessary in pro- 
nouncing syllables. The voice is frequently made to 
rest longer than usual upon a word that bears an im- 
portant signification; but this is done to humor the 
sense, and is not necessary for melody. A thing not 
more necessary for melody occurs with respect to ac- 
centing, similar to that now mentioned: A word signi^ 

N2 



150 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

I 

fying any thing humble, low, or dejected, is naturally, 
in prose, as well as verse, pronounced in a tone below 
the key-note. 

We are now sufficiently prepared for particulars ; 
beginning with English heroic verse, which shall be 
examined under the live heads, of number, quantity, 
arrangement, pause, and accent. This verse is of two 
kinds ; one named rhyme, or metre, and one blank verse. 
In the former, the lines are connected two and two by 
similarity of sound in the final syllables ; and two lines 
so connected are termed a couplet: similarity of sound 
being avoided in the latter, couplets are banished. 
These two sorts must be handled separately, because 
there are many peculiarities in each. Metre, the first 
article, shall be discussed in a few words. Every line 
consists of ten syllables, five short and five long ; from 
which there are but two exceptions, both of them rare. 
The first is, where each line of a couplet is made 
eleven syllables, by an additional syllable at the end : 

There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases, 
And beaux' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. 
The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why take it; 
I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it. 

This license is sufferable in a single couplet ; but if 
frequent, disgusts. 

The other exception concerns the second line of a 
couplet, which is sometimes stretched out to twelve 
syllables, termed an Alexandrine line : 

A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 

That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 

It doth well when employed to close a period with 
pomp and solemnity, where the subject makes that 
tone proper. 

With regard to quantity, it is unnecessary to mention 
a second time, that the quantities employed in verse 
are but two, the one double of the other; that every 
syllable is reducible to one or other of these standards; 
and that a syllable of the larger quantity is termed 
long, and of the lesser quantity short. The English 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 151 

language abounds in long and short syllables in words 
of three or more syllables ; the quantity, for the most 
part, is invariable : the exceptions are more frequent 
in dissyllables ; but as to monosyllables, they may, with- 
out many exceptions, be pronounced either long or 
short. This shows, that the melody of English verse 
must depend less upon quantity than upon other cir- 
cumstances. 

And with respect to arrangement, the English he- 
roic line is commonly Iambic, the first syllable short, 
the second long, and so on alternately through the 
whole line. One exception there is, pretty frequent, 
of lines commencing with a trochaeus, i. e. a long and a 
short syllable ; but this affects not the order of the fol- 
lowing syllables, which go on alternately, one short 
and one long. The following couplet affords an ex- 
ample of each kind : 

Some in the fields of purest ether play, 
and bask and whiten in the blaze of day. 

It is an imperfection in English verse, that it excludes 
the bulk of polysyllables, which are the most sounding 
words in our language, and it is accordingly almost to- 
tally reduced to dissyllables and monosyllables : mag- 
7ia?iimity is a sounding word totally excluded ; impetu- 
osity is still a finer word, by the resemblance of the 
sound and sense : and yet a negative is put upon it, as 
well as upon numberless words of the same kind. Poly- 
syllables composed of syllables long and short alter- 
nately, make a good figure in verse ; for example, 06- 
semance, opponent, and such others of three syllables. 
Imitation, imperfection, and others of four syllables, be- 
ginning with two short syllables, the third long, and 
the fourth short, may find a place in a line commenc- 
ing with a trochaeus. 

One would not imagine, without trial, how uncouth 
false quantity appears in verse ; not less than a pro- 
vincial tone or idiom. The article the is one of the 
few monosyllables that is invariably short : observe 



152 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

how harsh it makes a line where it must be pronounced 
long : 

This nymph, to the destruction of mankind. 

Again — 

Th' advenfrous baron the bright locks admzr'd. 

Let it be pronounced short, and it reduces the melody 
almost to nothing. 

The great variety of melody conspicuous in English 
verse, arises chiefly from the pauses and accents, which 
are of greater importance than is commonly thought. 
The pause, which paves the way to the accent, offers 
itself first to our examination ; and from a very short 
trial, the following facts will be verified: 1st. A lint 
admits but one capital pause. 2d. In different lines, 
we find this pause after the fourth syllable, after the 
fifth, after the sixth, and after the seventh. These 
four places of the pause lay a solid foundation for di- 
viding English heroic lines into four kinds. Each kind 
hath a melody peculiar to itself, readily distinguishable 
by a good ear ; but the pause cannot be made indif- 
ferently at any of the places mentioned : it is the sense 
that regulates the pause, and consequently it is the 
sense that determines of what order every line must 
be. There can be but one capital musical pause in a 
line ; and that pause ought to coincide, if possible, with 
a pause in the sense, in order that the sound may ac- 
cord with the sense. 

First, the pause after the fourth syllable : 
Back through the paths || of pleasing sense I ran. 

After the 5th : 

So when an angel || by divine command, 
With rising tempests jj shakes a guilty land. 

After the 6th : 

Speed the soft intercourse || from soul to soul. 
After the 7th : 

And taught the doubtful battle || where to rage. 

Besides the capital pause, inferior pauses will be dis- 
covered by a nice ear. Of these there are commonly 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 153 

two in each line: one before the capital pause, and 
one after it. The former comes after the first long 
syllable, whether the line begin with a short or a long 
syllable. The other in its variety imitates the capital 
pause : in some lines it comes after the 6th, in some 
after the 7th, and in some after the 8th syllable. 

In Hexameter verse, a full pause ought never to 
divide a word : such license deviates too far from the 
coincidence that ought to be between the pauses of 
sense and melody. 

The same rule is not applicable to a semi-pause, 
which, being short and faint, is not sensibly disagree- 
able when it divides a word : 

Relent I less walls || whose darksome round | contains. 
For her | white virgins [] hyme J neals sing. 
In these | deep solitudes || and aw | ful cells. 

The capital pause is so essential to the melody, that 
one cannot be too nice in the choice of its place, in 
order to have it clear and distinct. It cannot be in 
better company than with a pause in the sense ; and 
if the sense require but a comma after the fourth, 
fifth, sixth, or seventh syllable, it is sufficient for the 
musical pause. But to make such coincidence essen- 
tial, would cramp versification too much ; and we have 
experience for our authority, that there may be a 
pause in the melody where the sense requires none. 
We must not, however, imagine that a musical pause 
may come after any word indifferently : some words, 
like syllables of the same word, are so intimately con- 
nected, as not to bear a separation even by a pause. 
The separating, for example, a substantive from its 
article would be harsh and unpleasant. 

To explain the rules of accenting, we premised first, 
— That accents have a double effect : they contribute 
to the melody, by giving it air and spirit ; and to the 
sense, by distinguishing important words from others.* 
These two effects never can be separated, without im- 

* An accent considered with respect to sense is termed emphasis 



154 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

pairing the concord that ought to subsist between the 
thought and the melody ; an accent placed on a low 
word, has the effect to burlesque it, by giving it an 
unnatural elevation ; and the injury thus done to the 
sense does not rest there, for it seems also to injure 
the melody. Secondly, a word, of whatever number 
of syllables, is not accented upon more than one of 
them; because the object is set in its best light by a 
single accent, so as to make more than one unnecessa- 
ry for the sense: and if another be added, it must be 
for the sound merely ; which would be a transgression 
of the foregoing rule, by separating a musical accent 
from that which is requisite for the sense. 

The doctrine of accenting English heroic verse is 
extremely simple. In the first place, accenting is con- 
fined to the long syllables ; for a short syllable is not 
capable of an accent. In the next place, as the melo- 
dy is enriched in proportion to the number of accents, 
every word that has a long syllable may be accented ; 
unless the sense interpose, which rejects the accenting 
a word that makes no figure by its signification. Ac- 
cording to this rule, a line may admit five accents. 
But supposing every long syllable accented, there is, 
in every line, one accent that makes a greater figure 
than the rest, being that which precedes the capital 
pause. It is distinguished into two kinds ; one imme^ 
diately before the pause, and one divided from the 
pause by a short syllable. The former belongs to lines 
of the first and third order : the latter to those of the 
second and fourth. Examples of the first kind. 

Smooth flow the waves || the zephyrs gently play, 
Belinda smil'd || and all the world was gay. 
He rais'd his azure wand || and thus began. 

Examples of the other kind. 

There lay three garters || half a pair of gloves, 
And all the trophies || of his former loves. 

Our humble province || is to tend the fair, 
Not a less pleasing H though less glorious care. 

And hew triumphal arches || to the ground. 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 155 

It may be safely pronounced a capital defect in the 
composition of verse, to put a low word, incapable of 
an accent, in the place where this accent should be : 
this bars the accent altogether. No single circumstance 
contributes more to the energy of verse, than to put 
an important word where the accent should be, a word 
that merits a peculiar emphasis. 

In a line expressive of what is humble or dejected, 
it improves the resemblance between the sound and 
sense to exclude the capital accent. 

In these deep solitudes || and awful cells 
The poor inhabitant || beholds in vain. 

Accents are not, like syllables, confined to a certain 
number: some lines have no fewer than five, and there 
are lines that admit not above one. This variety de- 
pends entirely on the different powers of the compo- 
nent words: particles, even where they are long by 
position, cannot be accented ; and polysyllables, what- 
ever space they occupy, admit but one accent. Poly- 
syllables have another defect, they exclude the full 
pause, and few of them can find place in the construc- 
tion of English verse. 

Blank verse has so many circumstances in common 
with rhyme, that its peculiarities may be brought 
within a narrow compass. With respect to form, it 
differs from rhyme in rejecting the jingle of similar 
sounds, which purifies it from a childish pleasure. The 
peculiar advantage of blank verse is, that it is at 
liberty to attend the imagination in its boldest flights. 
Rhyme necessarily divides verse into couplets : each 
couplet makes a complete musical period, the parts of 
which are divided by pauses, and the whole summed 
up by a full close at the end: the melody begins anew 
with the next couplet ; and in this manner a compo- 
sition in rhyme proceeds couplet after couplet. From 
the correspondence and concord that subsist between 
sound and sense, it is a plain inference, that if a cou- 
plet be a complete period, with regard to melody, it 



156 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

ought regularly to be the same with regard to sense. 
As it is difficult to support such strictness of composi- 
tion, licenses are indulged, which must be used with 
discretion, to preserve some degree of concord between 
the sense and the music : there ought never to be a 
full close in the sense, but at the end of a couplet; and 
there ought always to be some pause in the sense at 
the end of every couplet: the same period, as to sense, 
may be extended through several couplets ; but each 
couplet ought to contain a distinct member, distin- 
guished by a pause in the sense as well as in the sound; 
and the whole ought to be closed with a complete ca- 
dence. Rules such as these confine rhyme within nar- 
row bounds : a thought of any extent, cannot be re- 
duced within its compass; the sense must be curtailed 
and broken into parts, to make it square with the 
curtness of the melody; and beside, short periods af- 
ford no latitude for inversion. 

I have examined this point with the stricter accu- 
racy, to give a just notion of blank verse; and to show 
that a slight difference in form may produce a great 
difference in substance. Blank verse has the same 
pauses and accents with rhyme, and a pause at the 
end of every line, like that which concludes the first 
line of a couplet. In a word, the rules of melody in 
blank verse, are the same that obtain with respect 
to the first line of a couplet; but being disengaged 
from couplets, there is access to make every line run 
into another, precisely so as to make the first line of a 
couplet run into the second. There must be a musical 
pause at the end of every line ; but this pause is so 
slight as not to require a pause in the sense : and ac- 
cordingly the sense may be carried on with or without 
pauses, till a period of the utmost extent be completed 
by a full close both in the sense and the sound : there 
is no restraint, other than that this full close be at the 
end of a line. Hence the fitness of blank verse for 
inversion; and consequently the lustre of its pauses 
and accents. 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 157 

In the second section of this chapter it is shown, 
that nothing contributes more than inversion to the 
force and elevation of language : the couplets of rhyme 
confine inversion ; nor would the elevation of inver- 
sion, in rhyme, accord with the humbler tone of that 
sort of verse. The loftiness of Milton's style supports 
admirably the sublimity of his subject : and this lofti- 
ness arises chiefly from inversion. Shakspeare deals 
little in inversion : his blank verse is a sort of measured 
prose, perfectly well adapted to the stage, where la- 
bored inversion is highly improper, because in dialogue 
it never can be natural. 

That superior power of expression which verse ac- 
quires by laying aside rhyme, is not the only ground 
for preferring blank verse: it possesses more extensive 
and complete melody. Its music is not confined to a 
single couplet ; but takes in a great compass, so as to 
rival music properly so called. The interval between 
its cadences may be long or short; and, by that means, 
its melody, with respect both to richness and variety, 
is far superior to that of rhyme, and superior even to 
that of the Greek and Latin hexameter. Of this ob- 
servation no person can doubt who is acquainted with 
the Paradise Lost: in which work there are indeed 
many careless lines; but at every turn the richest 
melody as well as the sublimest sentiments are con- 
spicuous. 

English hexameter w r ould be destitute of melody, 
unless by artful pronunciation; because of necessity 
the bulk of its sounds must be arbitrary. The pro- 
nunciation is easy in a simple movement of alternate 
long and short syllables ; but would be perplexing and 
unpleasant, in the diversified movement of hexameter 
verse. 

In modern tongues, rhyme has become universal 
among men as w r ell as children ; and it cannot have 
such currency without some foundation in human na- 
ture. In fact, it has been successfully employed by 



158 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

poets of genius, in their serious and grave compositions, 
as well as in those which are more light and airy. 

Rhyme, which connects two-verse lines by making 
them close with two words similar in sound, rouses the 
mind, and produces an emotion moderately gay without 
dignity or elevation ; like the murmuring of a brook 
gliding through pebbles, it calms the mind when per- 
turbed, and gently raises it when sunk. These effects 
are scarce perceived when the whole poem is in 
rhyme ; but are extremely remarkable by contrast, 
in the couplets that close the several acts of our later 
tragedies ; the tone of the mind is sensibly varied by 
them, from anguish, distress, or melancholy, to some 
degree of ease and alacrity. 

Having described the impression that rhyme makes 
on the mind, I proceed to examine whether there be 
any subjects to which rhyme is peculiarly adapted, and 
for what subjects it is improper. Grand and lofty sub- 
jects, which have a powerful influence, claim prece- 
dence in this inquiry. In the chapter of Grandeur and 
Sublimity, it is established that a grand or sublime ob- 
ject inspires a warm enthusiastic emotion, disdaining 
strict regularity and order. This emotion is different 
from that inspired by the moderately enlivening music 
of rhyme. Supposing then an elevated subject to be 
expressed in rhyme, what must be the effect ? The in- 
timate union of the music with the subject, produces 
an intimate union of their emotions ; one inspired by 
the subject, tends to elevate and expand the mind; 
and one inspired by the music, which tends to prevent 
all elevation above its own pitch. 

The cheering and enlivening power of rhyme is still 
more remarkable in poems of short lines, where the 
rhymes return upon the ear in a quick succession : for 
which reason rhyme is perfectly well adapted to gay, 
light, and airy subjects. 

For that reason, such frequent rhymes are very im- 
proper for any severe or serious passion : the di* c/ ~ 



BEAUTY OF LANGUAGE. 159 

nance between the subject and the melody is very sen- 
sibly felt. 

Rhyme is not less unfit for anguish or deep distress, 
than for subjects elevated and lofty ; and for that rea- 
son has been long disused in the English and Italian 
tragedy. In a work where the subject is serious, though 
not elevated, rhyme has not a good effect, as in the 
Essay on Man, Sportive love, mirth, gaiety, humor, 
and ridicule, are the province of rhyme. The bound- 
aries assigned it by Nature, were extended in barba- 
rous and illiterate ages ; and in its usurpations it has 
long been protected by custom : but taste in the fine 
arts, as well as in morals, improves daily, and makes 
a progress toward perfection, slow indeed, but uniform; 
and there is no reason to doubt that rhyme, in Britain, 
will in time be forced to abandon its unjust conquest, 
and to confine itself within its natural limits. 

REVIEW. 

From what does the distinction between prose and verse arise ? 

What does the difference between them resemble ? 

What five things are important to verse ? 

Which are essential to it ? 

For what three things are pauses important? 

What is meant by the key-note ? 

What by accenting a syllable ? 

What is cadence ? 

How are syllables classified ? 

What is their relative length ? 

Upon what word does the voice rest longer than usual ? 

What sort of word sinks below the key-note in pronunciation ? 

What are the two kinds of English heroic verse ? 

How is the former distinguished ? 

What is a couplet ? 

How is the latter distinguished ? 

What does every line consist of? 

What are the exceptions ? 

Give examples of the first exception — of the other. 

What is an Alexandrine line? — its use? 

May most monosyllables be pronounced long or short ? 

What is the arrangement of English heroic verse ? 

What is the exception ? 

Give an example. 

What imperfection in English verse is mentioned ? 

What is the effect of making a short syllable long in verse ? 

Give an example. 



160 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

From what does the great variety and melody of English verse 
arise ? 

Where may the capital pause in a line fall? 

With what should it coincide ? 

Give an example of its falling after the 4th syllable — after the 5th 
—after the 6th— after the 7th. 

What other pauses are there ? 

What rule is given concerning the full pause ? 

Does it apply to the semi-pause? 

May there be a pause in the melody where the sense requires 
none ? 

May a musical pause come after any word indifferently ? 

What effect have accents ? 

What is the effect of placing an accent on a low word? 

Can a word be accented on more than one syllable ? 

To what syllables is accenting confined? 

What words may be accented ? 

What accent makes the greatest figure? 

Into what two kinds is it distinguished? 

Give examples of the first — of the second. 

What capital defect in verse is mentioned ? 

From what lines should the capital pause be excluded? 

Are accents confined to a certain number ? 

What words exclude the full pause ? 

How does blank verse differ from rhyme with respect to form? 

What is its peculiar advantage? 

How does rhyme prevent this ? 

What rules of melody apply to blank verse ? 

What pause is required, and what is not ? 

What is the only restraint upon blank verse ? 

To what does inversion greatly contribute ? 

What does Milton's loftiness of style arise from? 

In what is labored inversion unnatural? 

What is observed of the melody of blank verse ? 

What is necessary to the melody of English hexameter ? 

What sort of rhyme rouses the mind, and produces a gay emo 
tion ? 

Is rhyme suited to grand and lofty subjects ? — why not ? 

To what subjects is" rhyme perfectly adapted? 

To what subjects is it not adapted ? 



(fo+VUisiA*? &- V 



COMPARISONS. 161 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Comparisons. 

Comparisons serve two purposes : when addressed to 
the understanding, their purpose is to instruct ; when 
to the heart, to please. The means which contribute 
to the latter, are, suggesting some unusual resemblance 
or contrast, setting an object in the strongest light, as- 
sociating an object with others that are agreeable, 
elevating or depressing an object. 

Objects of different senses cannot be compared to- 
gether ; for being separated from each other, they have 
no circumstance in common to admit resemblance or 
contrast. Objects of hearing, of taste, of smell, and 
of touch, may be compared; but the chief fund of 
comparison are objects of sight; because, in writing 
or speaking, things can only be compared in idea, and 
ideas of sight are more distinct than those of any other 
sense. 

When a nation, emerging out of barbarity, begins 
to think of the fine arts, the beauties of language can- 
not long lie concealed ; and when discovered, they are, 
by the force of novelty, carried beyond moderation. 
In the early poems of every nation, we find metaphors 
and similies founded on slight and distant resemblances, 
which, losing their grace and their novelty, wear gradu- 
ally out of repute ; by the improvement of taste, none 
but correct metaphors and similies are admitted in po- 
lite composition. With respect to similies, take the 
following specimen : 

Thou art like snow on the heath; thy hair like the mist of 
Cromla, when it curls on the rocks, and shines to the beam of the 
west : thy arms are like two white pillars in the hall of the mighty 
Fingal. Fi>gal. 

It has no good effect to compare things by way of 
simile that are of the same kind ; nor to compare by 
contrast things of different kinds. The reason is given 

2 



162 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. 

in the chapter quoted above; and the reason shall be 
illustrated by examples. The first is a comparison 
built upon a resemblance so obvious as to make little 
or no impression. 

This just rebuke infkm'd the Lycian crew, 

They join, they thicken, and th' assault renew . 

Unmov'd the embodied Greeks their fury dare, 

And, fix'd, support the weight of all the war; 

Nor could the Greeks repel the Lycian pow'rs, 

Nor the bold Lycians force the Grecian tow'rs. 

As on the confines of adjoining grounds, 

Two stubborn swains with blows dispute their bounds ; 

They tug, they sweat ; but neither gain nor yield, 

One foot, one inch, of the contended, field : 

Thus obstinate to death, they fight, they fall ; 

Nor these can keep, nor those can win the wall. 

Iliad, xii. 505. 

Another, from Milton, lies open to the same objec- 
tion. Speaking of the fallen angels searching for mines 
of gold : 

A numerous brigade hasten'd : as when bands 
Of pioneers with spade and pick-ax arm'd, 
Forerun the royal camp to trench a field 
Or cast a rampart. 

The next shall be of things contrasted that are of 
different kinds : 

Queen, What, is my Richard both in shape and mind 
Transform'd and weak ? Hath Bolingbroke<lepos'd 
Thine intellect ? Hath he been in thy heart ! 
The lion thrusteth forth his paw, 
And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage 
To be o'erpower'd : and wilt thou, pupil-like, 
Take thy correction mildly, kiss the rod, 
And fawn on rage with base humility ? 

Richard II. — Act V. Sc. 1. 

A man and a lion are of different species, and there- 
fore are proper subjects for a simile ; but there is no 
such resemblance between them in general, as to pro- 
duce any strong effect by contrasting particular attri- 
butes or circumstances. 

Comparisons must be distinguished into two kinds; 
one common and familiar, as where a man is compared 
to a lion in courage, or to a horse in speed ; the other 
more distant and refined, where two things that have 



COMPARISONS. 163 

in themselves no resemblance or opposition, are com- 
pared with respect to their effects. There is no sort 
of resemblance between a flower-pot and a cheerful 
song ; and yet they may be compared with respect to 
their effects, the emotions they produce being similar. 
There is as little resemblance between fraternal con- 
cord and precious ointment ; and yet observe how suc- 
cessfully they are compared with respect to the im- 
pressions they make. 

Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell 
together in unity. It is like the precious ointment upon the head, 
that ran down upon Aaron's beard, and descended to the skirts of 
his garment. Psalm 133. 

For illustrating this sort of comparison, I add some 
more examples: 

Delightful is thy presence, O Fingal ! it is like the sun on 
Cromla, when the hunter mourns his absence for a season and 
sees him between the clouds. 

Did not Ossian hear a voice ? or is it the sound of days that are no 
more? Often, like the evening sun, comes the memory of former 
times on my soul. 

His countenance is settled from war ; and is calm as the evening- 
beam, that from the cloud of the west looks on Cona's silent vale. 

Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessammor. 

The music was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant 
and mournful to the soul. 

Pleasant are the words of the song, said Cuchullin, and lovely 
are the tales of other times. They are like the calm dew of the 
morning on the hill of roes, when the sun is faint on its side, and 
the lake is settled and blue in the vale. 

These quotations are from the poems of Ossian, who 
abounds with comparisons of this delicate kind, and 
appears singularly happy in them.* 

I proceed to illustrate, by particular instances, the 
different means by which comparisons, w r hether of the 
one sort or the other, can afford pleasure ; and, in the 
order above established, I begin with such instances as 

* The nature and merit of Ossian's comparisons is fully illus- 
trated in a dissertation on the poems of that author, by Dr. Blair 
professor of rhetoric in the college of Edinburgh ; — a delicious 
morsel of criticism. 



164 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

are agreeable, by suggesting some unusual resemblance 
or contrast : 

Sweet are the uses of adversity, 

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 

Wears yet a precious jewel in her head. 

As you like It. — Act II. Sc. 1. 

Gardener, Bolingbroke hath seiz'd the wasteful king. 
What pity is't that he had not so trimm'd 
And dress'd his land, as we this garden dress; 
And wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees, 
Lest, being over-proud with sap and blood, 
With too much richness it confound itself. 
Had he done so to great and growing men, 
They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste 
Their fruits of duty. All superfluous branches 
We lop away, that bearing boughs may live: 
Had he done so, himself had borne the crown, 
Which waste and idle hours have quite thrown down. 

Richard II. — Act III. Sc. 7 

See, how the morning opes her golden gates, 
And takes her farewell of the glorious sun ; 
How well resembles it the prime of youth, 
Trimm'd like a younker prancing to his love ! 

Second Part Henry IV. 

Brutus. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, 
That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
And straight is cold again. 

" Julius C^sar. — Act IV. Sc. 3. 

Thus they their doubtful consultations dark 

Ended, rejoicing in their matchless chief: 

As when, from mountain-tops, the dusky clouds 

Ascending, while the north wind sleeps, o'erspread 

Heav'n's cheerful face, the low'ring element 

Scowls o'er the darken'd landscape, snow and show'r : 

If chance the radiant sun, with farewell sweet, 

Extends his ev'ning beam, the fields revive, 

The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds 

Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings. 

Paradise Lost. — Book II. 

As the bright stars and milky-way, 
Show'd by the night, are hid by diy ; 
So we in that accomplish'd mind, 
Help'd by the night, new graces find, 
Which by the splendor of her view, 
Dazzled before, we never knew. 

Waller. 



COMPARISONS. 165 

The last exertion of courage compared to the blaze 
of a lamp before extinguishing — Tasso GierusaL, canto 
19. st. 22. 

None of the foregoing similies, as they appear to 
me, tend to illustrate the principal subject : and there- 
fore the pleasure they afford, must arise from suggest- 
ing resemblances that are not obvious: I mean the 
chief pleasure; for undoubtedly a beautiful subject- 
introduced to form the simile affords a separate plea- 
sure, which is felt in the similies mentioned, particu- 
larly in that cited from Milton. 

The next effect of a comparison, in the order men- 
tioned, is to place an object in a strong point of view; 
which effect is remarkable in the following simile : 

As when two scales are charg'd with doubtful loads, 
From side to side the trembling balance nods, 
(While some laborious matron, just and poor, 
With nice exactness weighs her woolly store,) 
Till pois'd aloft, the resting beam suspends 
Each equal weight; nor this nor that descends: 
So stood the war, till Hector's matchless might, 
With fates prevailing, turn'd the scale of flight. 
Fierce as a whirlwind up the wall he flies, 
And fires his host with loud repeated cries. 

Iliad.— Book XII. 521. 

Lucetta. I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, 
But qualify the fire's extreme rage, 
Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. 

Julia. The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns: 
The current, that with gentle murmur glides, 
Thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; 
But when his fair course is not hindered, 
He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones, 
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; 
And so by many winding nooks he strays, 
With willing sport, to the wild ocean. 
Then let me go, and hinder not my course : 
I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, 
And make a pastime of each weary step, 
Till the last step have brought me to my love ; 
And there I'll rest, 'as, after much turmoil, 
A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. — Act II. Sc. 10 
She never told her love ; 
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek : she pin'd in thought, 



186 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

And, with a green and yellow melancholy, 
She sat like Patience on a monument, 
Smiling at Grief. 

Twelfth Night. — Act II. Sc. 4. 

York. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, 
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed, 
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know, 
With slow but stately pace, kept on his course : 
While all tongues cried, God save thee, Bolingbroke! 

Duchess. Alas ! poor Richard, where rides he the while ? 

York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, 
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage, 
Are idly bent on him who enters next, 
Thinking his prattle to be tedious : 
Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes 
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried, God save him ! 
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home ; 
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head : 
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, 
His face still combating with tears and smiles, 
The badges of his grief and patience ; 
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd 
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, 
And barbarism itself have pitied him. 

Richard II. — Act V. Sc. 3. 

Northumberland. How doth my son and brother ? 
Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek 
Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. 
Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, 
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, 
Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night, 
And would have told him, half his Troy was burn'd; 
But Priam found the fire, ere he his tongue: 
And I my Percy's death, ere thou report'st it. 

Second Part Henry IV. — Act I. Sc. 3. 

Why, then I do but dream on sov'reignty, 

Like one that stands upon a promontory, 

And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, 

Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, 

And eludes the sea that sunders him from thence, 

Saying, he'll lave it dry to have his way : 

So do I wish, the crown being so far off, 

And so I chide the means that keep me from it, 

And so (I say) I'll cut the causes off, 

Flatt'ring mv mind with things impossible. 

Third Part Henry VI.— Act III. Sc. 3. 

Out, out, brief candle! 
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more. 

Macbeth. — Act V. Sc. 5. 



COMPARISONS. 167 

O thou Goddess, 
Thou divine Nature ! how thyself thou blazon'st 
In these two princely boys ! they are as gentle 
As zephyrs blowing below the violet, 
Not wagging his sweet head ; and yet as rough 
(Their royal blood enchaf d) as the rudest wind, 
That by the top doth take the mountain pine, 
And make him stoop to th' vale. 

Cyznibeli^e. — Act IV. Sc. 4. 

Why did not I pass away in secret, like the flower of the rock 
that lifts its fair head unseen, and strows its withered leaves on the 
blast? Fingal. 

There is a joy in grief when peace dwells with the sorrowful. 
But they are wasted with mourning, O daughter of Toscar, and 
their days are few. They fall away like the flower on which the 
sun looks in his strength, after the mildew has passed over it, and 
its head is heavy with the drops of night. Fungal. 

The sight obtained of the city of Jerusalem by the 
Christian army, compared to that of land discovered 
after a long voyage — Tasso's Gierusal., canto 3. st. 4. 
The fury of Rinaldo subsiding when not opposed, to 
that of wind or water, when it has a free passage — 
Canto 20. st. 58. 

As words convey but a faint and obscure notion of 
great numbers, a poet, to give a lively notion of the 
object he describes with regard to number, does well 
to compare it to what is familiar and commonly known. 
Thus Homer* compares the Grecian army in point of 
number to a swarm of bees; in another passage f he 
compares it to that profusion of leaves and flowers 
which appear in the spring, or of insects in a summer's 
evening : and Milton, 

As when the potent rod 
Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day, 
Wav'd round the coast, up-call'd a pitchy cloud 
Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind,' 
That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung 
Like night, and darken'd all the land of INile : 
So numberless were those bad angels seen, 
Hovering on wing under the cope of hell, 
'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires. 

Paradise Lost. — Book L 

* Book 2. 1. 111. f Book 2. 1. 551. 



168 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Such comparisons have, by some writers, been con- 
demned for the lowness of the images introduced ; but 
surely without reason, for, with regard to numbers, 
they put the principal subject in a strong light. 

The foregoing comparisons operate by resemblance; 

others have the same effect by contrast. 

York, I am the last of noble Edward's sons, 
Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first : 
In war, was never lion rag'd more fierce ; 
In peace, was never gentle lamb more mild, 
Than was that young and princely gentleman. 
His face thou hast, for even so look'd he, 
Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours. 
But when he frown'd, it was against the French, 
And not against his friends. His noble hand 
Did win what he did spend ; and spent not that 
Which his triumphant father's hand had won. 
His hands were guilty of no kindred's blood, 
But bloody with the enemies of his kin. 
Oh, Richard ! York is too far gone with grief, 
Or else he never would compare between. 

Kichard II. — Act II. Sc. 3. 

Milton has a peculiar talent in embellishing the 
principal subject by associating it with others that are 
agreeable; which is the third end of a comparison. 
Similies of this kind have, beside, a separate effect ; 
they diversify the narration by new images that are 
not strictly necessary to the comparison; they are short 
episodes, which, without drawing us from the principal 
subject, afford great delight by their beauty and va- 
riety : 

He scarce had ceas'd, when the superior fiend 
Was moving toward the shore ; his pond'rous shield, 
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, 
Behind him cast ; the broad circumference 
Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb 
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views 
At ev'ning from the top of Fesole, 
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 
Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. 

Milton. — Book I. 

Thus far these, beyond 
Compare of mortal prowess, yet observ'd 
Their dread commander. He, above the rest 
In shape and gesture proudly eminent, 
Stood like a tower ; his form had not yet lost 



COMPARISONS. 169 

All her original brightness, nor appear 'd 

Less than archangel ruin'd, and th' excess 

Of glory obscur'd : as when the sun new-risen 

Looks through the horizontal misty air 

Shorn of his beams ; or from behind the moon 

In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds 

On half the nations, and with fear of change 

Perplexes monarchs. Milton. — Book I. 

As when a vulture on Imaus bred, 

Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds, 

Dislodging from a region scarce of prey 

To gorge the flesh of lambs, or yeanling kids, 

On hills where flocks are fed, flies toward the springs 

Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams, 

But in his way lights on the barren plains 

Of Sericana, where Chineses drive 

With sails and winds their cany wagons light : 

So on this windy sea of land, the fiend 

Walk'd up and down alone, bent on his prey. 

Milton. — Book I. 

Yet higher than their tops 
The verd'rous wall of paradise up-sprung : 
Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
Into his nether empire neighboring round. 
And higher than that wall, a circling row 
Of goodliest trees laden with fairest fruit, 
Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, 
Appear'd, with gay enamell'd colors mix'd, 
On which the sun more glad impress'd his beams, 
Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, 
When God had shower'd the earth ; so lovely seem'd 
That landscape : and of pure now purer air 
Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
All sadness but despair : now gentle gales 
Fanning their odorif rous wings, dispense 
Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
Those balmy spoils. As when to them who sail 
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 
Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow 
Sabean odor from the spicy shore 
Of Araby the Blest ; with such delay 
Well-pleas'd they slack their course, and many a league 
Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. 

Milton.— Book IV 

With regard to similies of this kind, it will readily 
occur to the reader, that when a resembling subject 
is once properly introduced in a simile, the mind is 
transitorily amused with the new object, and is not dis- 



170 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

satisfied with the slight interruption. Thus, in fine 
weather, the momentary excursions of a traveller for 
agreeable prospects or elegant buildings, cheer his 
mind, relieve him from the languor of uniformity, and, 
without much lengthening his journey, in reality shorten 
it greatly in appearance. 

Next, of comparisons that aggrandize or elevate. 
These affect us more than any other sort ; the reason 
of which may be gathered from the chapter of Gran- 
deur and Sublimity ; and, without reasoning, will be 
evident from the following instances : 

As when a flame the winding valley fills, 
And runs on crackling shrubs between the hills, 
Then o'er the stubble, up the mountain flies, 
Fires the high woods, and blazes to the skies, 
This way and that, the spreading torrent roars ; 
So sweeps the hero through the wasted shores. 
Around him wide, immense destruction pours, 
And earth is delug'd with the sanguine show'rs. 

Iliad, xx. 569. 

Through blood, through death, Achilles still proceeds, 
O'er slaughter'd heroes, and o'er rolling steeds. 
As when avenging flames with fury driv'n, 
On guilty towns exert the wrath of Heav'n, 
The pale inhabitants, some fall, some fly, 
And the red vapors purple all the sky : 
So rag'd Achilles : Death and dire dismay, 
And toils, and terrors, fill'd the dreadful day. 

Iliad, xxi. 605. 

Methinks, king Richard and myself should meet 
With no less terror than the elements 
Of fire and water, when their thund'ring shock, 
At meeting, tears the cloudy cheeks of heav'n. 

Richard II. — Act III. Sc. 5. 

As rusheth a foamy stream from the dark shady steep of Cromla, 
when thunder is rolling above, and dark brown night rests on the 
hill : so fierce, so vast, so terrible, rush forward the sons of Erin. 
The chief, like a whale of Ocean followed by all its billows 
pours valor forth as a stream, rolling its might along the shore. 

Fungal. — Book I. 

As roll a thousand waves to a rock, so Swaran's host came on 
as meets a rock a thousand waves, so Inisfail met Swaran. 

Ibid. 

I beg particular attention to the following simile, fa 
a reason that shall be mentioned : 



COMPARISONS. 171 

Thus breathing death, in terrible array, 
The close-compacted legions urg'd their way : 
Fierce they drove on, impatient to destroy; 
Troy charg'd the first, and Hector first of Troy. 
As from some mountain's craggy forehead torn, 
A rock's round fragment flies with fury borne, 
(Which from the stubborn stone a torrent rends) 
Precipitate the pond'rous mass descends ; 
From steep to steep the rolling ruin bounds : 
At every shock the crackling wood resounds ; 
Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and, urg'd amain, 
Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain 
There stops — So Hector. Their whole force he prov'd : 
Resistless when he raged; and when he stopp'd, unmov'd. 

Iliad, xiii. 187. 

The image of a falling rock is certainly not elevat- 
ing ; and yet undoubtedly the foregoing simile fires and 
swells the mind ; it is grand, therefore, if not sublime. 
And the following simile will afford additional evidence 
that there is a real, though nice, distinction between 
these tw T o feelings : 

So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high, 
Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell 
On the proud crest of Satan, that no sight, 
Nor motion of swift thought, less could his shield 
Such ruin intercept. Ten paces huge 
He back recoil' d ; the tenth on bended knee 
His massy spear upstaid ; as if on earth 
Winds under ground or waters forcing way, 
Sidelong had push'd a mountain from his seat 
Half-sunk with all his pines. 

Miltox.— Book VI. 

A comparison by contrast, may contribute to gran- 
deur or elevation, no less than by resemblance. 

The last article mentioned, is that of lessening or 
depressing a hated or disagreeable object; which is 
effectually done by resembling it to any thing low or 
despicable. Thus Milton, in his description of the rout 
of the rebel angels, happily expresses their terror and 
dismay in the following simile : 

As a herd 
Of goats or timorous flock together throng'd, 
Drove them before him thunder-struck, pursu'd 
With terrors and with furies to the bounds 
And crystal wall of heav'n, which, op'ning wide, 



172 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Roll'd inward, and a spacious gap disclos'd 
Into the wasteful deep : the monstrous sight 
Struck them with horror backward, but far worse 
Urg'd them behind ; headlong themselves they threw 
Down from the verge of heav'n. 

Milton. — Book VI. 

In the same view, Homer, I think, may he justified 
in comparing the shouts of the Trojans in battle to the 
noise of cranes,* and to the bleating of a flock of sheep :f 
it is no objection that these are low images ; for it was 
his intention to lessen the Trojans, by opposing their 
noisy march to the silent and manly march of the 
Greeks. Addison,J describing the figure that men make 
in the sight of a superior being, takes opportunity to 
mortify their pride by comparing them to a swarm of 
pismires. 

A comparison that has none of the good effects men- 
tioned in this discourse, but is built upon common and 
trifling circumstances, makes a mighty silly figure. 

By this time, the different purposes of comparison, 
and the various impressions it makes on the mind, are 
sufficiently illustrated. This was an easy task. It is 
more difficult to lay down rules about the propriety or 
impropriety of comparisons; in what circumstances 
they may be introduced, and in what circumstances 
they are out of place. A comparison is not proper on 
every occasion : a man, when cool and sedate, is not 
disposed to poetical flights,, nor to sacrifice truth and 
reality to imaginary beauties: far less is he so disposed 
when oppressed with care, or interested in some im- 
portant transaction. On the other hand, a man, when 
animated by passion, is disposed to elevate all his ob- 
jects : he avoids familiar names, exalts objects by cir- 
cumlocution and metaphor, and gives even life and 
voluntary action to inanimate beings. In this heat of 
mind, the highest poetical flights are indulged, and the 

* Beginning of Book III. f Book IV. 1. 498. 

t Guardian No. 153. 



COMPARISONS. 173 

boldest similies and metaphors relished.* But without 
soaring so high, the mind is frequently in a tone to 
relish chaste and moderate ornament; such as com- 
parisons that place the principal object in a strong 
light, or embellish and diversify the narration. In gen- 
eral, when, by an animating passion, an impulse is 
given to the imagination, we are disposed to figurative 
expression, and particularly to comparisons. This in 
a great measure is evident from the comparisons al- 
ready mentioned ; and shall be further illustrated by 
other instances. 

The dread of a misfortune, however imminent, in- 
volving always some doubt and uncertainty, agitates 
the mind, and excites the imagination : 

Wolsey. Nay, then, farewell ; 

I've touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, 
And from that full meridian of my glory 
I haste now to my setting. I shall fall, 
Like a bright exhalation in the evening, 
And no man see me more. 

He.w VIII.— Act III. Sc. 4. 

But it will be a better illustration of the present 
head, to give examples where comparisons are improp- 
erly introduced. I have had already occasion to ob- 
serve, that similies are not the language of a man in 
his ordinary state of mind, dispatching his daily and 
usual work. For that reason, the following speech of 
a gardener to his servants is extremely improper : 

Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricots, 
Which, like unruly children, make their sire 
Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight : 
Give some supportance to the bending twigs. 
Go thou: and, like an executioner, 
Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays, 
That look too lofty in our commonwealth : 
All must be even in our government. 

Richard II.— Act III. Sc. 7. 



* It is accordingly observed by Longinus, in his Treatise of the 
Sublime, that the proper time for metaphor, is when the passions 
are so swelled as to hurry on like a torrent. 

P2 



174 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

The fertility of Shakspeare's vein betrays him fre 
quently into this error. There is the same impropriety 
in another simile of his : 

Hero. Good Margaret, run thee into the parlor : 
There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice ; 
Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursula 
Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse 
Is all of her ; say, that thou overheard'st us : 
And bid her steal into the pleached bower 
Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun, 
Forbid the sun to enter ; like to favorites, 
Made proud by princes, that advance their pride 
Against that power that bred it. 

Much ado about Nothing. — Act III. Sc. 1. 

Rooted grief, deep anguish, terror, remorse, despair, 
and all the dispiriting passions, are enemies to the 
pomp and solemnity of comparison. Upon that ac- 
count, the simile pronounced by Rutland, under terror 
of death from an inveterate enemy, and praying mer- 
cy, is unnatural. 

So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch 
That trembles under his devouring paws ; 
And so he walks insulting o'er his prey, 
And so he comes to rend his limbs asunder. 
Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, 
And not with such a cruel threat'ning look. 

Third Part Henry VI. — Act I. Sc. 5. 

Nothing appears more out of place, nor more awk- 
wardly introduced, than the following simile : 

Lucia. Farewell, my Portius ; 

Farewell, though death is in the word,/or ever ! 

Portius. Stay, Lucia, stay; what dost thou say ?for ever? 

Lucia. Have I not sworn ? If, Portius, thy success 
Must throw thy brother on his fate, farewell : 
Oh, how shall I repeat the word,/or ever ! 

Portius. Thus o'er the dying lamp th' unsteady flame 
Hangs quivering on a point, leaps off by fits, 
And falls again, as loath to quit its hold, 

Thou must not go ; my soul still hovers o'er thee, 

And can't get loose. Cato. — Act III. Sc. 2. 

Nor doth the simile which closes the first act of the 
same tragedy make a better appearance; the situation 
there represented being too dispiriting for a simile. 



COMPARISOXS. 175 

A simile is improper for one who dreads the discovery 
of a secret machination. 

Zara. The mute not yet retum'd ! Ha ! 'twas the king, 
The king that parted hence ! Frowning he went ; 
His eyeslike meteors roll'd, then darted down 
Their red and angry beams ; as if his sight 
Would, like the raging dog-star, scorch the earth, 
And kindle ruin in its course. 

Mourning Bride. — Act V Sc. 3. 

A man spent and dispirited after losing a battle, is 
not disposed to heighten or illustrate his discourse by 
similies : 

York. With this we charg'd again ; but out, alas ! 
We bodg'd again ; as I have seen a swan 
With bootless labor swim against the tide. 
And spend her strength with over-matching waves. 
Ah ! hark, the fatal followers do pursue ; 
And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury. 
The sands are number'd that make up my life ; 
Here must I stay, and here my life must end. 

Third Part Henry VI. — Act I. Sc. 6. 

Far less is a man disposed to similies, who is not only 
defeated in a pitched battle, but lies at the point of 
death mortally wounded : 

Warwick. My mangled body shows, 

My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows, 
That I must yield my body to the earth, 
And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. 
Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge, 
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle; 
Under whose shade the rampiog lion slept; 
Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading tree, 
And kept low shrubs from winter's pow'rful wind. 

Third Part He>ry VI.— Act V. Sc. 3. 

Queen Katharine, deserted by the king, and in the 
deepest affliction on her divorce, could not be disposed 
to any sallies of imagination ; and for that reason the 
following simile, however beautiful in the mouth of a 
spectator, is scarce proper in her own : 

I am the most unhappy woman living, 
Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom where no pity. 
No friends, no hope ! no kindred weep for me ! 
Almost no grave allow'd me ! like the lily, 



176 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd, 
I'll hang my head, and perish. 

King Henry VIII.— Act III. Sc. 1. 

Similies thus unseasonably introduced, are finely ridi 
culed in the Rehearsal. 

Bayes. Now here she must make a similie. 

Smith. Where's the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes? 

Bayes. Because she's surprised; that's a general rule; you 
must ever make a similie when you are surprised ; 'tis a new way 
of writing. 

A comparison is not always faultless, even where it 
is properly introduced. I have endeavored above to 
give a general view of the different ends to which a 
comparison may contribute. A comparison, like other 
human productions, may fall short of its aim; of which 
defect, instances are not rare even among good wri- 
ters; and to complete the present subject, it will 
be necessary to make some observations upon such 
faulty comparisons. I begin with observing, nothing 
can be more erroneous than to institute a compari- 
son too faint: a distant resemblance, or contrast, /fa- 
tigues the mind with its obscurity, instead of amusing 
it ; and tends not to fulfil any one end of a comparison. 
The following similies seem to labor under this defect : 

K. Rich. Give me the crown. — Here, cousin, seize the 
crown. 
Here, on this side, my hand ; on that side, thine. 
Now is this golden crown like a deep well, 
That owes two buckets, filling one another ; 
The emptier ever dancing in the air, 
The other down, unseen and full of water: 
That bucket down, and full of tears, am I, 
Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high. 

Richard II.— Act IV. Sc. 3. 

K. John. Oh ! cousin, thou art come to set mine eye; 
The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burnt ; 
And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail, 
Are turned to one thread, one little hair : 
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, 
Which holds but till thy news be uttered. 

King John. — Act V. Sc. 10. 

York. My uncles both are slain in rescuing me : 
And all my followers to the eager foe 



COMPARISONS. 177 

Turn back, and fly like ships before the wind, 
Or lambs pursu'd by hunger-starved wolves. 

Third Part Hemiy VI. — Act I. Sc. 6. 

The latter of the two similies is good ; the former, 
by its faintness of resemblance, has no effect but to 
load the narration with an useless image. 

The next error is a capital one. In an epic poem, 
or in a poem upon an elevated subject, a writer ought 
to avoid raising a simile on a low image, which never 
fails to bring down the principal subject: A grand 
object ought never to be resembled to one that is 
diminutive, however delicate the resemblance ; for it 
is the peculiar character of a grand object to fix the 
attention, and swell the mind; to contract it to a mi- 
nute object, is therefore unpleasant. The resembling 
an object to one that is greater, has a good effect, by 
raising the mind: for one passes with satisfaction from 
small to great; but cannot be drawn down, without 
reluctance, from great to small. Hence the following 
similies are faulty : 

Meanwhile the troops beneath Patroclus' care 
Invade the Trojans, and commence the war. 
As wasps, provok'd by children in their play, 
Pour from their mansions by the broad highway, 
In swarms the guiltless traveller engage, 
Whet all their stings, and call forth all their rage; 
All rise in arms, and, with a general cry, 
Assert their waxen domes, and buzzing progenjr. 
Thus from the tents the fervent legion swarms, 
So loud their clamors, and so keen their arms. 

Iliad, xvi. 312. 

So burns the vengeful hornet (soul all o'er) 
Repuls'd in vain, and thirsty still of gore ; 
(Bold son of air and heat) on angry wings, 
Untam'd, untir'd, he turns, attacks and stings. 
Fir'd with like ardor fierce Atrides flew, 
And sent his soul with ev'ry lance he threw. 

Iliad, xvii. 642. 

An error, opposite to the former, is the introducing 
a resembling image, so elevated or great as to bear 
no proportion to the principal subject. Their re- 
markable disparity never fails to depress the principal 
subject by contrast, instead of raising it by resem- 



178 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

blance : if the disparity be great, the simile degene- 
rates into burlesque; nothing being more ridiculous 
than to force an object out of its proper rank in na- 
ture, by equalling it with one greatly superior or 
greatly inferior. 

A writer of delicacy will avoid drawing his com- 
parisons from any image that is nauseous, ugly, or re- 
markably disagreeable; for, however strong the resem- 
blance may be, more will be lost than gained by such 
comparison. 

O thou fond many ! with what loud applause 
Did'st thou beat heav'n with blessing Bolingbroke 
Before he was what thou would'st have him be ! 
And now being trimm'd up in thine own desires, 
Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of him, 
That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up. 
And so, thou common dog, did'st thou disgorge 
Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard, 
And now thou wouldst eat thy dead vomit up, 
And howl'st to find it. 

Second Part Henry IV. — Act I. Sc. 6. 

The strongest objection that can lie against a com- 
parison is, that it consists in words only, not in sense. 
Such false coin, or spurious wit, does extremely well in 
burlesque; but is far below the dignity of the epic, or of 
any serious composition. 

The noble sister of Poplicola, 
The moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle 
That 's curdled by the ,fi»6st from purest snow, 
And hangs on Dian's temple. 

CORTOLANUS. — ACT V. Sc. 3. 

There is evidently no resemblance between an icicle 
and a woman, chaste or unchaste ; but chastity is cold 
in a metaphorical sense, and an icicle is cold in a 
proper sense ; and this verbal resemblance, in the 
hurry and glow of composing, has been thought a suf- 
ficient foundation for the simile. Such phantom simi- 
lies are mere witticisms, which ought to have no quar- 
ter, except where purposely introduced to provoke 
laughter. 

This author's descriptions are so cold, that they surpass the 
Caspian snow, and all the ice of the north. 



COMPARISONS. 179 



■ But for their spirits and souls, 



This word rebellion had froze them up 
As fish are in a pond. 

Second Part Henry IV. — Act I. Sc. 2. 

Queen. The pretty vaulting sea refus'd to drown me ; 
Knowing, that thou wouldst have me drown'd on shore, 
With tears as salt as sea, through thy unkindness. 

Second Part Henry VI. — Act I. Sc. 6. 

Here there is no manner of resemblance but in the 
word drown; for there is no real resemblance between 
being drowned at sea, and dying of grief at land. 
But perhaps this sort of tinsel wit may have a proprie- 
ty in it, when used to express an affected, not a real 
passion, which was the queen's case. 

Pope has several similies of the same stamp in his 
Essay on Man, the most instructive of all his per- 
formances. 

And hence one master passion in the breast, 
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. 

Epist. 2. 1. 131. 

And, again, talking of this same ruling or master 
passion : 

Nature its mother, Habit is its nurse r 

Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse ; 

Reason itself but gives it edge and power ; 

As heav'n's bless'd beam turns vinegar more sour. 

Ibid. 1. 145. 

Lord Bolingbroke, speaking of historians : 

Where their sincerity as to fact is doubtful, we strike out truth 
by the confrontation of different accounts; as we strike out sparks 
of fire by the collision of flints and steel. 

Let us vary the phrase a very little, and there will 
not remain a shadow of resemblance. Thus : 

We discover truth by the confrontation of different accounts ; 
as we strike out sparks of fire by the collision of flints and steel. 

Beside the foregoing comparisons, which are all 
serious, there is a species, the purpose of which is to 
excite gaiety or mirth. Take the following examples : 

I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horse-stealer ; but for his 
verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet, or a 
worm-eaten nut. As you like It. — Act III. Sc. 10 



180 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

This sword a dagger had his page, 
That was but little for his age ; 
And therefore waited on him so, 
As dwarfs upon knights-errant do. 

Hudibras, Canto I* 

Description of Hudibras's horse : 

He was well stay'd, and in his gait 

Preserv'd a grave majestic state. 

At spur or switch no more he skipt, 

Or mended pace, than Spaniard whipt : 

And yet so fiery, he would bound 

As if he griev'd to touch the ground : 

That Caesar's horse, who as fame goes, 

Had corns upon his feet and toes, 

Was not by half so tender hooft, 

Nor trod upon the ground so soft. 

And as that beast would kneel and stoop, 

(Some write) to take his rider up ; 

So Hudibras his ('tis well known) 

Would often do to set him down. Canto I. 

The sun had long since, in the lap 

Of Thetis, taken out his nap ; 

And like a lobster boil'd, the morn 

From black to red began to turn. Part II. Canto 2. 

The most accomplished way of using books at present, is tc 
serve them as some do lords, — learn their titles, and then brag of 
their acquaintance. Ibid. 

Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits, 
While spouts run clatt'ring o'er the roof by fits ; 
And ever and anon with frightful din 
The leather sounds ; lie trembles from within. 
So when Troy's chairmen bore the wooden steed, 
Pregnant with Greeks, impatient to be freed 
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, 
Instead of paying chairmen, run them through,) 
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, 
And each imprison d hero quak'd for fear. 

Description of a City Shower. Swift. 

REVIEW. 

What are the purposes of comparisons ? 
What objects cannot be compared ? 
What occurs in the early poems of every nation? 
What are proper subjects for a simile ? 
What are the two kinds of comparisons ? 
Give an example of the latter kind. 

Give examples of comparisons which suggest some unusual re- 
semblance or contrast. 



FIGURES. jt'A 181 



Jpe 



Give examples of comparisons which pla^l^e object in a 
strong point of view. 

How does a poet convey the idea of vast lumbers. e 

What is the third end of comparison ? 

Who excels in it ? 

Give an example. 

When are comparisons improper ? 

When are the boldest similies and metaphors relished ? 

When are we disposed to figurative expression ? 

Give examples of similies improperly introduced. 

What passions are enemies to the pomp and solemnity of com- 
parison? 

Give an example of a disregard of this principle. 

How is the improper introduction of similies ridiculed in the 
Rehearsal ? 

What is the effect of a faint resemblance in a comparison ? 

Why should not a simile be raised on a low image ? 

What is the fault opposite to this ? 

What is the strongest objection that can lie against a compari- 
son? 

Give specimens of these similies. 

Give examples of humorous comparisons. 



CHAPTER XX. 

Figures. 

The endless variety of expression brought under the 
head of tropes and figures by ancient critics and gram- 
marians, makes it evident that they had no precise 
criterion for distinguishing tropes and figures from plain 
language. It was accordingly my opinion, that little 
could be made of them in the way of rational criti- 
cism, till discovering, by a sort of accident, that many 
of them depend on principles formerly explained, I 
gladly embrace the opportunity to show the influence 
of these principles where it would be the least ex- 
pected. Confining myself therefore to such figures, I 
am luckily freed from much trash, without dropping, 
as far as I remember, any trope or figure that merits 
a proper name. And I begin with Prosopopoeia, or Per- 
sonification, which is justly entitled to the first place. 

Q 




182 .ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM, 



lEctiojv I. — Personification. 



The bestowing sensibility and voluntary motion upon 
things inanimate, is so bold a figure, as to require, one 
should imagine, very peculiar circumstances for ope 
rating the delusion : and yet, in the language of po- 
etry, we find a variety of expressions, which, though 
commonly reduced to that figure, are used without 
ceremony, or any sort of preparation : as, for example, 
thirsty ground, hungry church-yard, furious dart, angry 
ocean. These epithets, in their proper meaning, are 
attributes of sensible beings. What is their meaning 
when applied to things inanimate ? Do they make us 
conceive the ground, the church-yard, the dart, the 
ocean, to be endued with animal functions ? This is a 
curious inquiry ; and whether so or not, it cannot be 
declined in handling the present subject. 

The mind, agitated by certain passions, is prone to 
bestow sensibility upon things inanimate. This is an 
additional instance of the influence of passion upon 
our opinions and belief. I give examples : Antony, 
mourning over the body of Caesar, murdered in the 
senate-house, vents his passion in the following words : 

Antony. O pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth. 
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers. 
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man 
That ever lived in the tide of times. 

Julius Caesar. — Act III. Sc. 1. 

Here Antony must have been impressed with a no- 
tion that the body of Caesar was listening to him, with- 
out which the speech would be foolish and absurd. 
Nor will it appear strange, considering what is said in 
the chapter above cited, that passion should have such 
power over the mind of man. 

Plaintive passions are extremely solicitous for vent ; 
and a soliloquy commonly answers the purpose : but 
when such a passion becomes excessive, it cannot be 
gratified but by sympathy from others ; and if denied 
that consolation in a natural way, it will convert even 



FIGURES. 183 

things inanimate into sympathizing beings. Thus, 
Philoctetes complains to the rocks and promontories of 
the isle of Lemnos ;* and Alcestes, dying, invokes the 
sun, the light of day, the clouds, the earth, her hus- 
band's palace, &c.f Moschus, lamenting the death of 
Bion, conceives that the birds, the fountains, the trees, 
lament with him. 

That such personification is derived from nature, 
will not admit the least remaining doubt, after finding 
it in poems of the darkest ages and remotest countries. 
No figure is more frequent in Ossian's works ; for ex- 
ample : 

The battle is over, said the king, and I behold the blood of my 
friends. Sad is the heath of Lena, and mournful the oaks of 
Cromla. 

Again : 

The sword of Gaul trembles at his side, and longs to glitter in 
his hand. 

King Richard, having got intelligence of Bolingbroke's 

invasion, says, upon landing in England from his Irish 

expedition, in a mixture of joy and resentment — 

I weep for joy 
To stand upon my kingdom once again. 
Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, 
Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs. 
As a long-parted mother with her child 
Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting; 
So weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth, 
And do thee favor with my loyal hands. 
Feed not thy sov'reign's foe, my gentle earth, 
JN"or with thy sweets comfort his rav'nous sense : 
But let thy spiders that suck up thy venom, 
And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way; 
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet, 
Which with usurping steps do trample thee. 
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies ; 
And, when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, 
Guard it, I pr'ythee, with a lurking adder ; 
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch 
Throw death upon thy sov'reign's enemies. 
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords : 
This earth shall have a feeling ; and these stones 

* Philoctetes of Sophocles, Act 4. Sc. 2. 
f Alcestes of Euripides, Act 2. Sc. 1. 



184 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Prove armed soldiers, ere her Dative king 
Shall falter under foul rebellious arms. 

Richard II. — Act 3. Sc. 2. 

After a long voyage, it was customary among the 
ancients to salute the natal soil. A long voyage being 
of old a greater enterprise than at present, the safe 
return to one's country, after much fatigue and danger, 
was a delightful circumstance ; and it was natural to 
give the natal soil a temporary life, in order to sym- 
pathize with the traveller. See an example, Agamem- 
non of JEschylus, Act 3, in the beginning. Regret for 
leaving a place one has been accustomed to, has the 
same effect.* 

Terror produces the same effect ; it is communi- 
cated in thought to every thing around, even to things 
inanimate : 

As when old Ocean roars, 
And heaves huge surges to the trembling shores. 

Iliad, ii. 249. 

Go, view the settling sea. The stormy wind is laid ; but the bil- 
lows still tremble on the deep, and seem to fear the blast. 

Fingal. 

A man also naturally communicates his joy to all 
objects around, animate or inanimate : 

As when to them who sail 
Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 
Mozambic, off at sea north-east winds blow 
Sabean odor from the spicy shore 
Of Araby the Blest ; with such delay 
Well pleas'd, they slack their course, and many a league, 
Cheer'd with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. 

Paradise Lost. — Book IV. 

I have been profuse of examples, to show what 
power many passions have to animate their objects. In 
all the foregoing examples, the personification, if I mis- 
take not, is so complete as to afford conviction, momen- 
tary indeed, of life and intelligence. But it is evident, 
from numberless instances, that personification is not 
always so complete: it is a common figure in descrip- 

* Philoctetes of Sophocles, at the close. 



FIGURES. 185 

tive poetry, understood to be the language of the wri- 
ter, and not of the persons he describes :, in this case, 
it seldom or never comes up to conviction, even mo- 
mentary, of life and intelligence. I give the following 
examples : 

First in his east the glorious lamp was seen, 

Regent of day, and all th' horizon round 

Invested with bright rays ; jocund to run 

His longitude through heaven's high road : the gray 

Dawn and the Pleiades before him danc'd, 

Shedding sweet influence. Less bright the moon, 

But opposite, in levell'd west was set, 

His mirror, with full face borrowing her light 

From him; for other light she needed none. 

Paradise Lost. Book 7. 1. 370.* 

Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Day 
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops. 

Romeo and Juliet. — Act 3. Sc. 7. 

But look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, 
Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill. 

Hamlet. — Act 1. Sc. 1. 

It may, I presume, be taken for granted, that in the 
foregoing instances, the personification, either with the 
poet or his reader, amounts not to a conviction of in- 
telligence ; that the sun, the moon, the day, the morn, 
are not here understood to be sensible beings. What 
then is the nature of this personification? I think it 
must be referred to the imagination. The inanimate 
object is imagined to be a sensible being, but without 
any conviction, even for a moment, that it really is so. 
Ideas, or fictions of imagination, have power to raise 
emotions in the mind ; and when any thing inanimate 
is, in imagination, supposed to be a sensible being, it 
makes, by that means, a greater figure than when an 
idea is formed of it according to truth. This sort of 
personification, however, is far inferior to the other in 

* The chastity of the English language, which in common usage 
distinguishes by genders no words but what signify beings male 
and female, gives thus a fine opportunity for the prosopopoeia; a 
beauty unknown in other languages, where every word is mascu* 
line or feminine. 

Q2 



186 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

elevation. Thus personification is of two kinds. The 
first, being more noble, may be termed passionate per- 
sonification: the other, more humble, descriptive per- 
sonification ; because seldom or never is personification 
in a description carried to conviction. 

The imagination is so lively and active, that its 
images are raised with very little effort; and this jus- 
tifies the frequent use of descriptive personification. 
This figure abounds in Milton's Allegro and Penseroso. 

Abstract and general terms, as well as particular 
objects, are often necessary in poetry. Such terms, 
however, are not well adapted to poetry, because they 
suggest not any image. I can readily form an image 
of Alexander or Achilles in wrath ; but I cannot form 
an image of wrath in the abstract, or of wrath inde- 
pendent of a person. Upon that account, in works 
addressed to the imagination, abstract terms are fre- 
quently personified; but such personification rests upon 
imagination merely, not upon conviction. 

Thus, to explain the effects of slander, it is imagined 

to be a voluntary agent. 

No, 'tis Slander ; 
Whose edge is sharper than the sword ; whose tongue 
Out-venoms all the worms of Nile \ whose breath 
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie 
All corners of the world, kings, queens, and states, 
Maids, matrons : nay, the secrets of the grave 
This viperous Slander enters. 

Shakspeare. — Cymbeline, Act III. Sc. 4. 

As also human passions. Take the following ex- 
ample : 

For Pleasure and Revenge 
Have ears more deaf than adders, to the voice 
Of any true decision. 

Troilus and Cressida. — Act II. Sc. 4, 

Virgil explains fame and its effects by a still greater 
variety of action.* And Shakspeare personifies death 
and its operations in a manner singularly fanciful. 

Within the hollow crown 
That rounds the mortal temples of a king, 

* jEneid, iv. 173. 



FIGURES. 187 

Keeps Death his court ; and there the antic sits, 

Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp ; 

Allowing him a breath, a little scene 

To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks ; 

Infusing him with self and vain conceit, 

As if his flesh, which walls about our life, 

Were brass impregnable : and, humor d thus, 

Comes at the last, and with a little pin 

Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king. 

Richard II. Act 3. Sc. 4. 

Not less successfully is life and action given even to 
sleep : 

King Henry. How many thousands of my poorest subjects 
Are at this hour asleep ! Sleep, gentle Sleep, 
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, 
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 
And steep my senses in forgetfulness : 
Why rather, Sleep, ly'st thou in smoky cribs, 
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, 
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, 
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, 
Under the canopies of costly state, 
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody ? 
O thou dull god, why ly'st thou with the vile 
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch, 
A watch-case to a common larum-bell? 
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast, 
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains 
In cradle of the rude imperious surge ; 
And in the visitation of the winds, 
Who take the ruffian billows by the top, 
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them 
With deaf'ning clamors in the slippery shrouds, 
That, with a hurly, Death itself awakes ? 
Canst thou, O partial Sleep, give thy repose 
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude ; 
And, in the calmest and most stillest night, 
With all appliances and means to boot, 
Deny it to a king ? Then, happy low ! lie down ; 
Uneasy lies a head that wears a crown. 

Second Part Henry IV. Act III. Sc. 1. 

I shall add one example more, to show that descrip- 
tive personification may be used with propriety, even 
where the purpose of the discourse is instruction 
merely : 

Oh ! let the steps of youth be cautious, 
How they advance into a dangerous world : 



188 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Our duty only can conduct us safe. 

Our passions are seducers ; but of all, 

The strongest Love. He first approaches us 

In childish play, wantoning io our walks : 

If heedlessly we wander after him, 

As he will pick out all the dancing-way, 

We're lost, and hardly to return again. 

We should take warning : he is painted blind, 

To show us, if we fondly follow him, 

The precipices we may fall into. 

Therefore, let Virtue take him by the hand: 

Directed so, he leads to certain joy. Southern. 

Hitherto success has attended our steps ; but whe- 
ther we shall complete our progress with equal suc- 
cess, seems doubtful ; for when we look back to the 
expressions mentioned in the beginning, thirsty ground, 
furious dart, and such like, it seems no less difficult 
than at first, to say whether there be in them any sort 
of personification. Such expressions evidently raise 
not the slightest conviction of sensibility ; nor do I 
think they amount to descriptive personification : be- 
cause, in them, we do not even figure the ground or 
the dart to be animated. If so, they cannot at all 
come under the present subject. To show which, 1 
shall endeavor to trace the effect that such expressions 
have in the mind. Doth not the expression angry ocean, 
for example, tacitly compare the ocean in a storm to 
a man in wrath ? By this tacit comparison, the ocean 
is elevated above its rank in nature ; and yet personi- 
fication is excluded, because, by the very nature of 
comparison, the things compared are kept distinct, and 
the native appearance of each is preserved. It will 
be shown afterward, that expressions of this kind be- 
long to another figure, which I term a figure of speech, 
and which employs the seventh section of the present 
chapter. 

Though thus in general we can distinguish descrip- 
tive personification from what is merely a figure of 
speech, it is, however, often difficult to say, with re- 
spect to some expressions, whether they are of the one 
kind or of the other. Take the following instances : 



FIGURES, 189 

The moon shines bright : in such a night as tint,, 
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, 
And they did make no noise ; in such a night, 
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, 
And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents 
Where" Cressid lay that night. 

Merchant of Venice. — Act V. Sc. 1. 

I have seen 
Th' ambitious ocean swell, and rage, and foam, 
To be exalted with the threatening clouds. 

Julius C^sar. — Act 1. Sc. 6. 

With respect to these and numberless other exam- 
ples of the same kind, it must depend upon the reader, 
whether they be examples of personification, or of a 
figure of speech merely. A sprightly imagination will 
advance them to the former class, with a plain reader 
they will remain in the latter. 

Having thus at large explained the present figure, 
its different kinds, and the principles upon which it is 
founded ; what comes next in order is, to show in what 
cases it may be introduced with propriety, when it is 
suitable, when unsuitable. I begin with observing, 
that passionate personification is not promoted by eve- 
ry passion indifferently. All dispiriting passions are 
averse to it ; and remorse, in particular, is too serious 
and severe to be gratified with a phantom of the 
mind. I cannot, therefore, approve the following 
speech of Enobarbus, who had deserted his master 
Antony : 

Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon! 
When men revolted shall upon record 
Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did 

Before thy face repent 

Oh sovereign mistress of true melancholy ! 
The poisonous damp of night dispunge upon me ; 
That life, a very rebel to my will, 
May hang no longer on me. 

Antony and Cleopatra. — Act 4. Sc. 7. 

If this can be justified, it must be upon the heathen 
system of theology, which converted into deities the 
sun, moon, and stars. 



190 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Secondly, After a passionate personification is prop- 
erly introduced, it ought to be confined to its proper 
province, that of gratifying the passion, without giving 
place to any sentiment or action but what answers 
that purpose ; for personification is at any rate a bold 
figure, and ought to be employed with great reserve. 
The passion of love, for example, in a plaintive tone, 
may give a momentary life to woods and rocks, in or- 
der to make them sensible of the lover's distress ; but 
no passion will support a conviction so far stretched, 
as that these woods and rocks should be living wit- 
nesses to report the distress to others. 

It is plainly the operation of the writer, indulging 
his inventive faculty without regard to nature. The 
same observation is applicable to the following pas- 
sage : 

In winter's tedious nights, sit by the fire 

With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales, 

Of woful ages, long ago betid : 

And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their grief, 

Tell thou the lamentable fall of me, 

And send the hearers weeping to their beds. 

For why ? the senseless brands will sympathize 

The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, 

And in compassion weep the fire out. 

Richard II — Act V. Sc. 2. 

One must read this passage very seriously, to avoid 
laughing. The following passage is quite extravagant. 
The different parts of the human body are too inti- 
mately connected with self, to be personified by the 
power of any passion; and after converting such a 
part into a sensible being, it is still worse to make it 
be conceived as rising in rebellion against self: 

Cleopatra. Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury. 

Coward flesh ! 

Wouldst thou conspire with Caesar to betray me, 
As thou wert none of mine ? I '11 force thee to 't. 

Dryden. — All for Love, Act V. 

Next comes descriptive personification ; upon which 
I must observe, in general, that it ought to be cau- 
tiously used. A personage in a tragedy, agitated by a 



FIGURES. iyl 

strong passion, deals in warm sentiments; and the 
reader, catching fire by sympathy, relishes the boldest 
personifications. But a writer, even in the most lively 
description, taking a lower flight, ought to content 
himself with such easy personifications as agree with 
the tone of mind inspired by the description. Nor 
is even such easy personification always admitted; for, 
in plain narrative, the mind, serious and sedate, rejects 
personification altogether. 

I do not approve, in Shakspeare, the speech of King 
John, gravely exhorting the citizens of Angiers to a 
surrender ; though a tragic writer has much greater 
latitude than an historian. Take the following speci- 
men: 

The cannons have their bowels full of wrath ; 

And ready-mounted are they to spit forth 

Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls. Act II. Sc. 3. 

Secondly, If extraordinary marks of respect to a 
person of low rank be ridiculous, no less so is the per- 
sonification of a low subject. This rule chiefly re- 
gards descriptive personification ; for a subject can 
hardly be low that is the cause of a violent passion; in 
that circumstance, at least, it must be of importance. 
But to assign any rule other than taste merely, for 
avoiding things below even descriptive personification, 
will, I am afraid, be a hard task. A poet of superior 
genius, possessing the power of inflaming the mind, 
may take liberties that would be too bold in others. 
Homer appears not extravagant in animating his 
darts and arrows ; nor Thomson in animating the 
seasons, the winds, the rains, the dews; he even 
ventures to animate the diamond, and doth it with 
propriety : 

That polish'd bright 
And all its native lustre let abroad, 
Dares, as it sparkles on the fair one's breast, 
With vain ambition emulate her eyes. 

But there are things familiar and base, to which 
personification cannot descend. In a composed state 



192 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

of mind, to animate a lump of matter, even in the most 
rapid flight of fancy, degenerates into burlesque : 

How now? What noise ! that spirit's possess'd with haste, 
That wounds th' unresisting postern with these strokes. 

Shakspeare. — Measure for Measure, Act IV. Sc. 6. 

The same observation is applicable to abstract terms, 
which ought not to be animated unless they have some 
natural dignity. Thomson, in this article, is licentious; 
witness the following instances, out of many : 

O vale of bliss ! O softly-swelling hills ! 
On which the power of cultivation lies, 
And joys to see the wonders of his toil. 

Summer, 1. 1435. 

Then sated Hunger bids his brother Thirst 

Produce the mighty bowl : 

Nor wanting is the brown October, drawn, 

Mature and perfect, from his dark retreat 

Of thirty years ; and now his honest front 

Flames in the light refulgent. Autumn, 1. 516. 

Thirdly, It is not sufficient to avoid improper sub- 
jects. Some preparation is necessary, in order to 
rouse the mind ; for the imagination refuses its aid till 
it be warmed at least, if not inflamed. Yet Thomson, 
without the least ceremony or preparation, introduceth 
each season as a sensible being : 

From brightening fields of ether fair disclos'd, 

Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes, 

In pride of youth, and felt through Nature's depth. 

He comes attended by the sultry hours, 

And ever fanning breezes, on his way ; 

While from his ardent look, the turning Spring 

Averts her blushful face, and earth and skies 

All smiling to his hot dominion leaves. Summer, I. 1» 

See Winter comes, to rule the varied year, 

Sullen and sad, with all his rising train, 

Vapors, and clouds, and storms. Winter, 1. 1. 

This has violently the air of writing mechanically, 
without taste. It is not natural that the imagination 
of a writer should be so much heated at the very com- 
mencement ; and, at any rate, he cannot expect such 
ductility in his readers. But if this practice can be 



FIGURES. 193 

justified by authority, Thomson has one of no mean 
note. 

Even Shakspeare is not always careful to prepare 
the mind for this bold figure. Take the following 
instance : 

Upon these taxations, 
The clothiers all, not able to maintain 
The many to them 'longing, have put off 
The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers ; who, 
Unfit for other life, compelPd by hunger, 
And lack of other means, in desp'rate manner 
Daring the event to th' teeth, are all in uproar, 
And Danger serves among them. 

He>ry VIII.— Act I. Sc. 2. 

Fourthly, Descriptive personification, still more than 
what is passionate, ought to be kept within the bounds 
of moderation. A reader, warmed with a beautiful 
subject, can imagine, even without passion, the winds, 
for example, to be animated ; but still the winds are 
the subject ; and any action ascribed to them beyond 
or contrary to their usual operation, appearing un- 
natural, seldom fails to banish the illusion altogether. 
The reader's imagination, too far strained, refuses its 
aid ; and the description becomes obscure, instead of 
being more lively and striking. In this view, the fol- 
lowing passage, describing Cleopatra on shipboard, 
appears to me exceptionable. 

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne. 
Burnt on the water: the poop was beaten gold, 
Purple the sails, and so perfum'd, that 
The winds were love-sick with 'em. 

Antony and Cleopatra. — Act II. Sc. 3. 

The winds, in their impetuous course, have so much 
the appearance of fury, that it is easy to figure them 
wreaking their resentment against their enemies, by 
destroying houses, ships, &c. ; but to figure them love- 
sick has no resemblance to them in any circumstance. 
In another passage, where Cleopatra is also the sub- 
Iject, the personification of the air is carried beyond 
1 all bounds : 

R 



194 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

The city cast 
Its people out upon her; and Antony 
Enthron'd i' th' market-place, did sit alone, 
Whistling to th' air, which, but for vacancy, 
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, 
And made a gap in Nature. 

Antony and Cleopatra. — Act II. Sc. 3. 

The following personification of the earth, or soil 
is not less wild : 

She shall be dignified with this high honor, 
To bear my Lady's train ; lest the base earth 
Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss ; 
And of so great a favor growing proud, 
Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower, 
And make rough winter everlastingly. 

Two Gentlemen of Verona. — Act II. Sc. 7. 

Shakspeare, far from approving such intemperance 
of imagination, puts this speech in the mouth of a 
ranting lover. 

Dullness may be imagined a deity or idol, to be wor- 
shipped by bad writers ; but then some sort of disguise 
is requisite, some bastard virtue must be bestowed, to 
make such worship in some degree excusable. Yet, 
in the Dunciad, Dullness, without the least disguise, is 
made the object of worship. The mind rejects such a 
fiction as unnatural ; for dullness is a defect, of which 
even the dullest mortal is ashamed. 

Then he, great tamer of all human art ! 

First in my care, and ever at my heart ; 

Dullness ! whose good old cause I yet defend, 

With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end. 

E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig was praise 

To the last honors of the Bull and Bays ! 

O thou ! of bus'ness the directing soul, 

To this our head, like bias to the bowl, 

Which, as more pond'rous, made its aim more true, 

Obliquely waddling to the mark in view ; 

O ! ever gracious to perplex'd mankind, 

Still spread a healing mist before the mind : 

And, lest we err by Wit's wild dancing light, 

Secure us kindly in our native night. 

Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence, 

Guard the sure barrier between that and sense : 

Or quite unravel all the reas'ning thread, 

And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! 



FIGURES. 195 

As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, 

And pond'rous slugs cut swiftly through the sky ; 

As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe, 

The wheels above urged by the load below ; 

Me Emptiness and Dullness could inspire, 

And were my elasticity and fire. Book I. 163. 

Fifthly, The enthusiasm of passion may have the ef- 
fect to prolong passionate personification ; but descrip- 
tive personification cannot be dispatched in too few 
words. A circumstantial description dissolves the 
charm, and makes the attempt to personify appear 
ridiculous. 

Her fate is whisperd by the gentle breeze, 
And told in sighs to all the trembling trees ; 
The trembling trees, in ev'ry plain and wood, 
Her fate remurmur to the silver flood : 
The silver flood, so lately calm, appears 
Swell'd with new passion, and overflows with tears ; 
The winds, and trees, and floods, her death deplore, 
Daphne, our grief! our glory ! now no more. 

Pope's Pastorals, iv. 61. 

Let grief or love have the power to animate the 
winds, the trees, the floods, provided the figure be dis- 
patched in a single expression : even in that case, the 
figure seldom has a good effect ; because grief or love 
of the pastoral kind, are causes rather too faint for so 
violent an effect as imagining the wind, trees, or floods, 
to be sensible beings. But when this figure is delibe- 
rately spread out, with great regularity and accuracy, 
through many lines, the reader, instead of relishing it, 
is struck with its ridiculous appearance. 

REVIEW. 

What is personification ? 

Give examples of it. 

When does the mind bestow sensibility on inanimate things? 

In what manner do the plaintive passions find vent? 

Give examples. 

Is personification natural ? 

What evidence have we of this fact ? 

What examples from Ossian are given? 

What example from Shakspeare ? 

Does terror bestow sensibility on inanimate objects ? 

Give examples. 

What is the eflect of joy ? 



196 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Give an example. 

Does personification always attribute life and intelligence to the 
objects personified ? 

Give examples in which it falls short of this effect. 

To what is this sort of personification referred ? 

How many kinds of it are there, and what are they ? 

In what poems does descriptive personification abound ? 

Why are abstract terms personified in poetry? 

Give examples. 
Js passionate personification promoted by every passion ? 

What passions are averse to it? 

What speech is disapproved, on this ground ? 

To what should passionate personification be confined? 

How should descriptive personificationhe used ? 

Give an example of its improper use. *liei>+*^t*~<*'<& 

What is the effect of personifying familiar and base objects ? 

Give an example. 

To what else does the. observation apply? 

Give examples, i^wi- <y &*<^ 

What is necessary in order to introduce a personification prop^ 
erly ? 

What writers sometimes violate this rule ? 

What observations are made on Shakspeare's personification of 
the winds? — on Pope's personification of dullness? 

What is the effect of dwelling too long on descriptive personifi- 
cation ? 

What remark is made on the passage from Pope ? 

Section II. — Apostrophe. 

This figure, and the former, are derived from the 
same principle. If, to humor a plaintive passion, we 
can bestow a momentary sensibility upon an inanimate 
object, it is not more difficult to bestow a momentary 
presence upon a sensible being who is absent : 

Strike the harp in praise of Bragela, whom I left in the isle of 
mist, the spouse of my love. Dost thou raise thy fair face from the 
rock to find the sails of Cuchullin ? The sea is rolling far distant, 
and its white foam shall deceive thee for my sails. Retire, for it 
is night, my love ; and the dark winds sigh in thy hair. Retire to 
the hall of my feasts, and think of the times that are past; for I 
will not return till the storm of war is gone. O Connal, speak of 
wars and arms, and send her from my mind ; for lovely with her 
raven-hair is the white-bosom'd daughter of Sorglan. 

Fingal. — Book I. 
Speaking of Fingal absent : 

Happy are thy people, O Fingal ; thine arm shall fight their bat- 
tles. Thou art the first in their dangers, the wisest in the days of 
their peace : thou speakest, and thy thousands obey ; and armies 
tremble at the sound of thy steel. Happy are thy people, O Fingal. 



FIGURES. 197 

This figure is sometimes joined with the former. 

Things inanimate, to qualify them for listening to a 

passionate expostulation, are not only personified, but 

also conceived to be present : 

Helena, Poor lord, is 't I 

That chase thee from thy couotry, and expose 
Those tender limbs of thine to the event 
Of the none-sparing war ? And is it I 
That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou 
Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark 
Of smoky muskets ? O you leaden messengers, 
That ride upon the violent speed of fire, 
Fly with false aim ; pierce the still-moving air 
That sings with piercing : do not touch my lord. 

All's well that ends well. — Act III. Sc. 4. 

And let them lift ten thousand swords, said Nathos with a smile; 
the sons of car-borne Usnoth will never tremble in danger. Why 
dost thou roll with all thy foam, thou roaring sea of Ullin? why 
do ye rustle on your dark wings, ye whistling tempests of the sky ? 
Do ye think, ye storms, that ye keep Nathos on the coast ? No ; 
his soul detains him, children of the night! Althos, bring my fath- 
er's arms, Szc. Fingal. 

Whither hast thou fled, O wind, said the king of Morven ! Dost 
thou rustle in the chambers of the south, and pursue the shower 
in other lands? Why comest not thou to my sails, to the blue face 
of my seas? The foe is in the land of Morven, and the King is 
absent. Ibid. 

Hast thou left thy blue course in heaven, golden-hair d son of 
the sky? The west hath opened its gates; the bed of thy repose 
is there. The waves gather to behold thy beauty : they lift their 
trembling heads ; they see thee lovely in thy sleep : but they shrink 
away with fear. Rest in thy shadowy cave, O Sun ! and let thy 
return be in joy. Ibid. 

Daughter of Heaven, fair art thou ! the silence of thy face is 
pleasant. Thou comest forth in loveliness : the stars attend thy 
blue steps in the east. The clouds rejoice in thy presence, O 
Moon ! and brighten their dark-brown sides. Who is like thee in 
heaven, daughter of the night? The stars are ashamed in thy pres- 
ence, and turn aside their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou re- 
tire from thy course, when the darkness of thy countenance grows ? 
Hast thou thy hall like Ossian? Dwell'st thou in the shadow of 
grief? Have thy sisters fallen from heaven ? and are they who re- 
joiced with thee at night no more? Yes, they have fallen, fair 

light; and often dost thou retire to mourn. But thou thyself 

shalt, one night, fail: and leave thy blue path in heaven. The 
stars will then lift their heads : they who in thy presence were 
.ashamed, will rejoice. Ibid. 

This figure, like all others, requires an agitation of 
R2 



198 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

mind. In plain narrative, as for example, in giving 
the genealogy of a family, it has no good effect. 

Section III. — Hyperbole. 

In this figure, by which an object is magnified or di- 
minished beyond truth, we have another effect of 
the foregoing principle. An object of an uncommon 
size, either very great of its kind, or very little, strikes 
us with surprise ; and this emotion produces a momen- 
tary conviction, that the object is greater or less than 
it is in reality. The same effect, precisely, attends 
figurative grandeur or littleness ; and hence the hyper- 
bole, which expresses that momentary conviction. A 
writer, taking advantage of this natural delusion, warms 
his description greatly by the hyperbole ; and the 
reader, even in his coolest moments, relishes the figure, 
being sensible that it is the operation of nature upon 
a glowing fancy. 

It cannot have escaped observation, that a writer is 
commonly more successful in magnifying by an hyper- 
bole, than in diminishing. The reason is, that a minute 
object contracts the mind, and fetters the power of 
imagination ; but that the mind, dilated and inflamed 
with a grand object, moulds objects for its gratification 
with great facility. Longinus, with respect to a dimin- 
ishing hyperbole, quotes the following ludicrous thought 
from a comic poet : " He was owner of a bit of ground 
no larger than a Lacedaemonian letter."* But, for the 
reason now given, the hyperbole has by far the great- 
est force in magnifying objects ; of which take the fol- 
lowing examples : 

For all the land which thou seest, to thee will I give it, and to 
thy seed for ever. And I will make thy seed as the dust of the 
earth; so that if a man can number the dust of the earth, then 
shall thy seed also be numbered. Genesis, xiii. 15, 16. 

When he speaks, 
The air, a charter'd libertine, is still. 

He>"ry V. — Act I. Sc. 1. 

* Chapter 31, of his Treatise on the Sublime. 



FIGURES. 199 

Now shield with shield, with helmet helmet clos'd, 
To armor armor, lance to lance oppos'd. 
Host against host with shadowy squadrons drew, 
The sounding darts in iron tempests flew, 
Victors and vanquish' d join promiscuous cries, 
And shrilling shouts and dying groans arise ; 
With streaming blood the slipp'ry fields are died, 
And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide. 

Iliad, iv. 508. 

Quintilian is sensible that this figure is natural: 
u For," says he, " not contented with truth, we natu- 
rally incline to augment or diminish beyond it ; and 
for that reason the hyperbole is familiar even among 
the vulgar and illiterate :" and he adds, very justly, 
" that the hyperbole is then proper, when the subject 
of itself exceeds the common measure." 

Having examined the nature of this figure, and the 
principle on which it is erected, I proceed, as in the 
first section, to the rules by which it ought to be gov- 
erned. And, in the first place, it is a capital fault to 
introduce an hyperbole in the description of any thing 
ordinary or familiar; for, in such a case, it is altogether 
unnatural, being destitute of surprise, its only founda- 
tion. Take the following instance, where the subject 
is extremely familiar, viz. swimming to gain the shore 
after a shipwreck : 

I saw him beat the surges under him, 

And ride upon their backs ; he trod the water ; 

Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 

The surge most swoln that met him : his bold head 

'Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar'd 

Himself with his good arms, in lusty strokes 

To th' shore that o'er his wave-borne basis bow'd, 

As stooping to relieve him. 

Tempest. — Act II. Sc. 1. 

In the next place, it may be gathered from what is 
said, that an hyperbole can never suit the tone of any 
dispiriting passion : sorrow, in particular, will never 
prompt such a figure ; for which reason the following 
hyperboles must be condemned as unnatural : 

IT. Rich. Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted 
cousin ! 
We '11 make foul weather with despised tears ; 



200 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Our sighs, and they, shall lodge the summer-Corn, 
And make a dearth in this revolting land. 

Richard II. — Act III. Sc. 6. 

Draw them to Tyber's bank, and weep your tears 
Into the channel, till the lowest stream 
Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. 

Julius Cjesar. — Act I. Sc. 1. 

Thirdly, A writer, if he wish to succeed, ought al- 
ways to have the reader in his eye;\ he ought, in par- 
ticular, never to venture a bold thought or expression, 
till the reader be warned and prepared. For that rea- 
son, an hyperbole in the beginning of a work can never 
be in its place. 

The nicest point of all is to ascertain the natural 
limits of an hyperbole, beyond which, being over- 
strained, it hath a bad effect. Longinus, in the above- 
cited chapter, with great propriety of thought, enters 
a caveat against an hyperbole of this kind : he com- 
pares it to a bow-string, which relaxes by overstrain- 
ing, and produces an effect directly opposite to what is 
intended. To ascertain any precise boundary, would 
be difficult, if not impracticable. Mine shall be an 
humbler task ; which is, to give a specimen of what I 
reckon overstrained hyperbole; and I shall be brief 
upon them, because examples are to be found every- 
where. No fault is more common among writers of 
inferior rank; and instances are found even among 
classical writers. Witness the following hyperbole, too 
bold even for a Hotspur. 

Hotspur, talking of Mortimer : 

In single opposition, hand to hand, 

He did confound the best part of an hour 

In changing hardiment with great Glendower. 

Three times they breath'd, and three times did they drink, 

Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood; 

Who, then, affrighted with their bloody looks, 

Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds, 

And hid his crisp head in the hollow bank, 

Blood-stained with these valiant combatants. 

First Part Henry IV. — Act I. Sc. 3. 

Speaking of Henry V. : 

England ne'er had a king until his time: 

Yirtue he had, deserving to command: , ^ 



FIGURES. 201 

His brandish'd sword did blind men with its beams : 
His arms spread wider than a dragon's wings : 
His sparkling eyes, replete with awful fire, 
More dazzled, and drove back his enemies, 
Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces. 
What should I say ? His deeds exceed all speech : 
He ne'er lift up his hand, but conquer'd. 

First Part He>ry VI. — Act I. Sc. 1. 

Lastly, An hyperbole, after it is introduced with al 
advantages, ought to be comprehended within the few- 
est words possible. As it cannot be relished but in the 
hurry and swelling of the mind, a leisurely view dis- 
solves the charm, and discovers the description to be 
extravagant at least, and perhaps also ridiculous. 

There is in Chaucer a thought expressed in a single 
line, which gives more lustre to a young beauty, than 
the whole of this much-labored poem : 

Up rose the sun, and up rose Emilie. 

Section IV. — The means or instrument cojiceixed to be the 
Agent, 

When we survey a number of connected objects, 
that which makes the greatest figure, employs chiefly 
our attention ; and the emotion it raises, if lively, 
prompts us even to exceed nature in the conception 
we form of it. Take the following examples : 

For Neleus' son Alcides' rage had slain. 
A broken rock the force of Pirus threw. 

In these instances, the rage of Hercules and the 
force of Pirus, being the capital circumstances, are so 
far exalted as to be conceived the agents that produce 
the effects. 

In the following instances, hunger being the chief 
circumstance in the description, is itself imagined to 
be the patient. 

Whose hunger has not tasted food these three days. 

Ja>e Shore. 
As when the force 
Of subterranean wind transports a hill. 

Paradise Lost. 



202 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

As when the potent rod 
Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day 
Wav'd round the coast, up-calFd a pitchy cloud 
Of locusts. Ibid. 

REVIEW. 

What is an apostrophe ? 
Give examples of it. 

Give examples of its union with personification. 
What does this figure require ? 
What is hyperbole ? — describe its origin. 
How is it most successfully used? — why? 
Give examples. 

When is hyperbole proper, according to Quintilian ? 
Where should hyperbole be avoided"? 
Give an example of the violation of this rule. 
To what passions is it unsuitable ? 
Give examples. 

Point out the faulty expressions in these examples. 
What caution should the writer observe ? 
What examples of overstrained hyperbole are given ? 
Should a hyperbole be expressed concisely ? 
Give examples of the figure of speech in which the means or 
instrument is conceived to be the agent. 

§ 
Section V. — A Figure which, among related objects, ex- 
tends the properties of one to another. 

This figure is not dignified with a proper name, be- 
cause it has been overlooked by writers. It merits, 
however, a place in this work ; and must be distin- 
guished from those formerly handled, as depending on 
a different principle. Giddy brink, jovial wine, daring 
wound, are examples of this figure. Here are adjec- 
tives that cannot be made to signify any quality of the 
substantives to which they are joined : a brink, for ex- 
ample, cannot be termed giddy in a sense, either proper 
or figurative, that can signify any of its qualities or 
attributes. When we examine attentively the ex- 
pression, we discover that a brink is termed giddy from 
producing that effect in those who stand on it. In the 
same manner, a wound is said to be daring, not with 
respect to itself, but with respect to the boldness of 
the person who inflicts it ; and wine is said to be jovial, 
as inspiring mirth and jollity. Thus the attributes of 



FIGURES. 203 

one subject are extended to another with which it is 
connected ; and the expression of such a thought must 
be considered as a figure, because the attribute is not 
applicable to the subject in any proper sense. 

How are we to account for this figure, which we see 
lies in the thought, and to what principle shall we re- 
fer it ? Have poets a privilege to alter the nature of 
things, and at pleasure to bestow attributes upon a 
subject to which^they do not belong? We have had 
often occasion to inculcate, that the mind passeth easily 
and sweetly along a train of connected objects ; and, 
where the objects are intimately connected, that it is 
disposed to carry along the good and bad properties 
of one to another, especially when it is in any degree 
inflamed with these properties. From this principle 
is derived the figure under consideration. Language, 
invented for the communication of thought, would be 
imperfect, if it were not expressive even of the slighter 
propensities and more delicate feelings. But language 
cannot remain so imperfect among a people who have 
received any polish ; because language is regulated by 
internal feeling, and is gradually improved to express 
whatever passes in the mind. Thus, for example, when 
a sword in the hand of a coward is termed a coward 
sword, the expression is significative of an internal ope- 
ration ; for the mind, in passing from the agent to its 
instrument, is disposed to extend to the latter the prop- 
erties of the former. Governed by the same principle, 
we say listening fear, by extending the attribute listen- 
ing of the man who listens, to the passion with which 
he is moved. In the expression bold deed, we extend 
to the effect what properly belongs to the cause. But, 
not to waste time by making a commentary upon every 
expression of this kind, the best way to give a com- 
plete view of the subject, is to exhibit a table of the 
different relations that may give occasion to this figure. 
And, in viewing the table, it will be observed, that the 
figure can never have any grace but where the rela- 
tions are of the most intimate kind. 






204 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

1. An attribute of the cause expressed as an attri- 
bute of the effect : 

Of yonder fleet a bold discovery make. 
An impious mortal gave the daring wound. 

To my advenfrous song, 
That with no middle flight intends to soar. 

Paradise Lost* 

2. An attribute of the effect expressed as an attri- 
bute of the cause : 

No wonder, fallen such a pernicious height. 

Paradise Lost. 

3. An effect expressed as an attribute of the cause : 

Jovial wine, Giddy brink, Drowsy night, Musing midnight, 
Panting height, Astonish'd thought, Mournful gloom. 

Casting a dim religious light. Milton, Comus. 

And the merry bells ring round, 

And the jocund rebecks sound. Milton, Allegro. 

4. An attribute of a subject bestowed upon one of 
its parts or members : 

Longing arms. 

It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear. 

Romeo and Juliet. — Act III. Sc. 7. 

Oh, lay by 
Those most ungentle looks and angry weapons ; 
Unless you mean my griefs and killing fears 
Should stretch me out at your relentless feet. 

Fair Penitent. — Act III. 

And ready now 
To stoop with wearied wing and willing feet, 
On the bare outside of this world. 

Paradise Lost. — Book III. 

5. A quality of the agent given to the instrument 
with which it operates : 

Why peep your coward swords half out their shells ? 

6. An attribute of the agent given to the subject 
upon which it operates : 

High-climbing hill. Milton. 



FIGURES. 205 

7. A quality of one subject given to another : 

When sapless age, and weak unable limbs 
Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. 

Shakspeare. 
By art the pilot, through the boiling deep 
And howling tempest, steers the fearless ship. 

Iliad, xxiii. 385. 

A stupid moment motionless she stood. 

Summer, 1. 1336. 

8. A circumstance connected with a subject, ex- 
pressed as a quality of the subject. 

Breezy summit. 

'Tis ours the chance of fighting fields to try. 

Iliad, i. 301. 

Oh ! had I died before that well-fought wall. 

Odyssey, v. 395. 

From this table it appears, that the adorning a cause 
with an attribute of the effect, is not so agreeable as 
the opposite expression. The progress from cause to 
effect is natural and easy ; the opposite progress re- 
sembles retrograde motion; and therefore panting height, 
astonished thought, are strained and uncouth expressions, 
which a writer of taste will avoid. 

It is not less strained to apply to a subject, in its 
present state, an epithet that may belong to it in some 
future state : 

And mighty ruins fall. Iliad, v. 411. 

Impious sons their mangled fathers wound. 

Another rule regards this figure, That the property 
of one subject ought not to be bestowed upon another 
with which that property is incongruous : 

K. Rich, How dare thy joints forget 

To pay their awful duty to our presence? 

Richard II. — Act III. Sc. 6. 

The connexion between an awful superior and his 
submissive dependant is so intimate, that an attribute 
may readily be transferred from the one to the other ; 
but awfulness cannot be so transferred, because it is 
inconsistent with submission. 

S 



206 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 



Section VI. — Metaphor and Allegory. 

A metaphor differs from a simile in form only, not in 
substance : in a simile, the two subjects are kept dis- 
tinct in the expression, as well as in the thought ; in a 
metaphor, the two subjects are kept distinct in the 
thought only, not in the expression. 4k hero resembles 
a lion, and upon that resemblance many similies have 
been raised by Homer and other poets. But instead of 
resembling a lion, let us take the aid of the imagination, 
and feign or figure the hero to be a lion : by that va- 
riation the simile is converted into a metaphor ; which 
is carried on by describing all the qualities of a lion 
that resemble those of the hero. The fundamental 
pleasure here, that of resemblance, belongs to the 
thought. An additional pleasure arises from the ex- 
pression : the poet, by figuring his hero to be a lion, 
goes on to describe the lion in appearance, but in 
reality the hero; and his description is peculiarly 
beautiful, by expressing the virtues and qualities of 
the hero in new terms, which, properly speaking, be- 
long not to him, but to the lion. This will better be 
understood by examples. A family connected with a 
common parent, resembles a tree, the trunk and 
branches of which are connected with a common root ; 
but let us suppose, that a family is figured, not barely 
to be like a tree, but to be a tree ; and then the simile 
will be converted into a metaphor, in the following 
manner: 

Edward's sev'n sons, whereof thyself art one, 
Were sev'n fair branches, springing from one root : 
Some of these branches by the dest'nies cut : 
But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloster, 
One flourishing branch of his most royal root, 
Is hack'd down, and his summer-leaves all faded, 
By Envy's hand and Murder's bloody ax. 

Richard II. — Act I. Sc. 3. 

Figuring human life to be a voyage at sea : 

There is a tide in the affairs of men, 

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; 



FIGURES. 207 

Omitted, all the voyage of their life 

Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 

On such a full sea are we now afloat, 

And we must take the current while it serves, 

Or lose our ventures. Julius C^sar. — Act IV. Sc. 5. 

Figuring glory and honor to be a garland of flow- 
ers : 

Hot-pur. Would to Heav'n 

Thy name in arms were now as great as mine ! 

Pr. Henry. I '11 make it greater, ere I part from thee, 
And all the budding honors on thy crest 
I'll crop, to make a garland for my head. 

First Part Henry IV. — Act V. Sc. 9. 

Figuring a man who hath acquired great reputation 
and honor to be a tree full of fruit : 

O, boys, this story 
The world may read in me : my body's mark'd 
With Roman swords ; and my report was once 
First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; 
And when a soldier was the theme, my name 
Was not far off; then was I as a tree, 
Whose boughs did bend with fruit : but in one night, 
A storm or robbery, call it what you will, 
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, 
And left me bare to weather. 

Cymbelixe. — Act III. Sc. 3. 

Blest be thy soul, thou king of shells, said Swaran of the dark- 
brown shield. In peace thou art the gale of spring; in war, the 
mountain-storm. Take now my hand in friendship, thou noble 
king of Morven. Fi> _ gal. 

Thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty Ossian. 
My sighs arise with the beam of the east: my tears descend with 
the drops of night. I was a lovely tree in thy presence, Oscar, 
with all my branches round me ; but thy death came like a blast 
from the desert, and laid my green head low : the spring returned 
with its showers, but no leaf of mine arose. Ibid. 

I am aware that the term metaphor has been used 
in a more extensive sense than I give it : but I thought 
it of consequence, in a disquisition of some intricacy, to 
confine the term to its proper sense, and to separate 
from it things that are distinguished by different names. 
An allegory differs from a metaphor ; and what I would 
choose to call a figure of speech differs from both. I 
proceed to explain these differences. A metaphor is 
defined above to be an act of the imagination, figuring 



208 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

one thing to be another. An allegory requires no such 
operation, nor is one thing figured to be another : it 
consists in choosing a subject having properties or cir- 
cumstances resembling those of the principal subject ; 
and the former is described in such a manner as^to 
represent the latter: the subject thus represented is 
kept out of view ; we are left to discover it by re- 
flection ; and we are pleased with the discovery, be 
cause it is our own work. 

A finer or more correct allegory is not to be found 
than the following, in which a vineyard is made to 
represent God's own people, the Jews. 

Thou hast brought a vine out of Egypt : thou hast cast out the 
Heathen, and planted it. Thou didst cause it to take deep root, 
and it filled the land. The hills were covered with its shadow, and 
the boughs thereof were like the goodly cedars. Why hast thou 
then broken down her hedges, so that all which pass do pluck her ? 
The boar out of the woods doth waste it, and the wild beast doth 
devour it. Return, we beseech thee, O God of hosts : look down 
from heaven, and behold, and visit this vine, and the vineyard thy 
right hand hath planted, and the branch thou madest strong for 
thyself. Psalm 80. 

In a word, an allegory is in every respect similar to 
a hieroglyphicai painting, excepting only that words 
are used instead of colors. Their effects are precisely 
the same. A hieroglyphic raises two images in the 
mind; one seen, which represents one not seen: an 
allegory does the same ; the representative subject is 
described; and resemblance leads us to apply the 
description to the subject represented. In a fine figure 
of speech, there is no fiction of the imagination em- 
ployed, as in a metaphor, nor a representative subject 
introduced, as in an allegory. This figure, as its name 
implies, regards the expression only, not the thought ; 
and it may be defined, the using a word in a sense dif- 
ferent from what is proper to it. Thus youth, or the 
beginning of life, is expressed figuratively by morning 
of life ; \ morning is the beginning of the day; and in 
that view it is employed to signify the beginning of 
any other series, life especially ; the progress of which 
is reckoned by days. 



FIGURES. 209 

Figures of speech are reserved for a separate sec- 
tion; but metaphor and allegory are so much connect- 
ed, that they must be handled together; the rules 
particularly for distinguishing the good from the bad, 
are common to both. We shall therefore proceed to 
these rules, after adding some examples to illustrate 
the nature of an allegory. 

Queen. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, 

But cheerly seek how to redress their harms. 

What though the mast be now thrown overboard, 

The cable broke, the holding anchor lost, 

And half our sailors swallow'd ia the flood ; 

Yet lives our pilot still. Is 't meet, that he 

Should leave the helm, and, like a fearful lad, 

With tearful eyes, add water to the sea, 

And give more strength to that which hath too much ; 

While in his moan the ship splits on the rock, 

Which industry and courage might have sav'd? 

Ah, what a shame ! ah, what a fault were this ! 

Third Part Henry VI. — Act V. Sc. 5 
Oroonoko, Ha ! thou hast rous'd 

The lion in his den : he stalks abroad, 

And the wide forest trembles at his roar. 

I find the danger now. Oroonoko. — Act III. Sc. 2. 

My well-beloved hath a vineyard ia a very fruitful hill. He 
fenced it, gathered out the stones thereof, planted it with the 
choicest vines, built a tower in the midst of it, and also made 
a wine-press therein : he looked that it should bring forth grapes, 
and it brought forth wild grapes. And now, O inhabitants of Je- 
rusalem, and men of Judah, judge, I pray you, betwixt me and 
my vineyard. What could have been done more to my vineyard, 
that I have not done ? Wherefore, when I looked that it should 
bring forth grapes, brought it forth wild grapes ? And now go to ; 
I will tell you what I will do to my vineyard : I will take away the 
hedge thereof, and it shall be eaten up ; and break down the wall 
thereof, and it shall be trodden down. And I will lay it waste ; 
it shall not be pruned, nor digged, but there shall come up briers 
and thorns ; I will also command the clouds that they rain no rain 
upon it. For the vineyard of the Lord of hosts is the house of 
Israel, and the men of Judah his pleasant plant. 

ISATAH, V. 1. 

The rules that govern metaphors and allegories are 
of two kinds : the construction of these figures comes 
under the first kind ; the propriety or impropriety of 
introduction comes under the other. I begin with rules 
o£ the first kind ; some of which coincide with those 

S2 



210 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

already given for similies ; some are peculiar to meta- 
phors and allegories. 

And, in the first place, it has been observed, that a 
simile cannot be agreeable where the resemblance is 
either too strong or too faint* This holds equally in 
metaphor and allegory ; and the reason is the same in 
all. In the following instances, the resemblance is too 
faint to be agreeable : 

He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause 
Within the belt of rule. 

Macbeth. — Act V. Sc. 2. 

There is no resemblance between a distempered 

cause and any body that can be confined within a belt. 

Again : 

Steep me in poverty to the very lips. 

Othello. — Act IV. Sc 9. 

Poverty must here be conceived a fluid, which it 

resembles not in any manner. 

Speaking to Bolingbroke, banished for six years : 

The sullen passage of thy weary steps 
Esteem a soil, wherein thou art to set 
The precious jewel of thy home-return. 

Richard II. — Act I. Sc. 6. 
Again : 

Here is a letter, lady, 

And every word in it a gaping wound, 

Issuing life-blood. 

Merchant of Venice. — Act III. Sc. 3. 

The following metaphor is strained beyond all en- 
durance. Timurbec, known to us by the name of 
Tamerlane the Great, writes to Bajazet, Emperor of 
the Ottomans, in the following terms : 

Where is the monarch who dares resist us ? where is the poten- 
tate who doth not glory in being numbered among our attendants ? 
As for thee, descended from a Turcoman sailor, since the vessel 
of thy unbounded ambition hath been wrecked in the gulf of thy 
self-love, it would be proper that thou shouldst take in the sails of 
thy temerity, and cast the anchor of repentance in the port of sin- 
cerity and justice, which is the port of safety; lest the tempest ot 
our vengeance make thee perish in the sea of the punishment thou 
deservest. 

Such strained figures, as observed above, are not 

unfrequent in the first dawn of refinement. The mind, 



FIGURES. 211 

in a new enjoyment, knows no bounds, and is generally- 
carried to excess, till taste and experience discover the 
proper limits. 

Secondly, Whatever resemblance subjects may have, 
it is wrong t(\put one for another, where they bear no 
mutual proportion. ) Upon comparing a very high to 
a very low subject, the simile takes on an air of bur- 
lesque ; and the same will be the effect, where the one 
is imagined to be the other, as in a metaphor; or made 
to represent the other, as in an allegory. 

Thirdly, These figures, a metaphor especially, ought 
not to be crowded with many minute circumstances ; 
for in that case it is scarcely possible to avoid obscu- 
rity. A metaphor, above all, ought to be short. It is 
difficult, for any time, to support a lively image of a 
thing being what we know it is not ; and, for that rea- 
son, a metaphor drawn out to any length, instead of 
illustrating or enlivening the principal subject, be- 
comes disagreeable by overstraining the mind. Here 
Cowley is extremely licentious : take the following in- 
stance : 

Great and wise conqu'ror, who, where'er 

Thou com'st, doth fortify, and settle there ! m 

Who canst defend as well as get, 

And who never hadst one quarter beat up yet ; 

Now thou art in, thou ne'er wilt part 

With one inch of my vanquished heart : 
For since thou took'st it by assault from me, 1 

'Tis garrison'd so strong with thoughts of thee, > 

It fears no beauteous enemy. ' 

For the same reason, however agreeable long alle- 
gories may at first be by their novelty, they never af- 
ford any lasting pleasure: witness the Fairy Queen, 
which, with great power of expression, variety of 
images, and melody of versification, is scarce ever read 
a second time. 

In the fourth place, the comparison carried on in a 
simile, being in a metaphor, sunk by imagining the 
principal subject to be that very thing which it only 
resembles ; an opportunity is furnished to describe it 
in terms taken strictly or literally with respect to its 



212 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

imagined nature. This suggests another rule ; That 
in constructing a metaphor, the writer ought vto make 
use of such words only as are applicable literally to 
the imagined nature of his subject. Figurative words 
ought carefully to be avoided ; for such complicated 
figures, instead of setting the principal subject in a 
strong light, involve it in a cloud ; and it is well if the 
reader, without rejecting by the lump, endeavor pa- 
tiently to gather the plain meaning, regardless of its 
figures : 

A stubborn and unconquerable flame 

Creeps in his veins, and drinks the streams of life. 

Lady Jane Grey. — Act I. Sc. 1. 

Let us analyze this expression. That a fever may 
be imagined a flame, I admit ; though more than one 
step is necessary to come at the resemblance. A fever, 
by heating the body, resembles fire; and it is no stretch 
to imagine a fever to be a fire. Again, by a figure of 
speech, flame may be put for fire, because they are 
commonly conjoined; and therefore a fever may be 
termed a flame. But now, admitting a fever to be a 
flame, its effects ought to be explained in words that 
agree literally to a flame. This rule is not observed 
here ; for a flame drinks figuratively only, not prop- 
erly. 

King Henry to his son, Prince Henry : 

Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, 
Which thou hast whetted on thy stony heart, 
To stab at half an hour of my frail life. 

Second Part Henry IV. — Act IV. Sc. 11. 

Such faulty metaphors are pleasantly ridiculed in 
the Rehearsal: 

Physician. Sir, to conclude, the place you fill has more than, 
amply exacted the talents of a wary pilot ; and all these threat- 
ening storms, which, like impregnate clouds, hover o'er our heads, 
will, when they once are grasped but by the eye of reason, melt 
into fruitful showers of blessings on the people. 

Bayes. Pray, mark that allegory. Is not that good ? 

Johnson. Yes, that grasping of a storm with the eye is admi- 
rable. Act II. Sc. 1. 

Fifthly, The jumhling different metaphors in the 



FIGURES. 213 

same sentence, beginning with one metaphor and end- 
ing with another, commonly called a mixed metaphor, 
ought never to be indulged. 

K. Henri/. Will you again unknit 

This churlish knot of all-abhorred war, 
And move in that obedient orb again, 
Where you did give a fair and natural light ? 

First Part He>ry VI.— Act V. Sc. L. 

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer 
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune ; 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 
And, by opposing, end them. 

Hamlet. — Act III. Sc. 2. 

In the sixth place, It is unpleasant to join different 
metaphors in the same period, even where they are 
preserved distinct; for when the subject is imagined 
to be first one thing and then another in the same pe- 
riod without interval, the mind is distracted by the 
rapid transition ; and when the imagination is put on 
such hard duty, its images are too faint to produce any 
good effect. 

In the last place, It is still worse to jumble together 
metaphorical and natural expression, so as that the 
period must be understood in part metaphorically, in 
part literally ; for the imagination cannot follow with 
sufficient ease changes so sudden and unprepared. A 
metaphor begun and not carried on, hath no beauty; 
and, instead of light, there is nothing but obscurity and 
confusion. Instances of such incorrect composition are 
without number. I shall, for a specimen, select a few 
from different authors. 

Speaking of Britain : 

This precious stone set in the sea, 
Which serves it in the office of a wall, 
Or as a moat defensive to a house 
Against the envy of less happier lands. 

Richard II. — Act I. Sc. i. 

In the first line, Britain is figured to be a precious 
stone. In the following lines, Britain, divested of her 
metaphorical dress, is presented to the reader in her 
natural appearance — 



214 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

These growing feathers, pluck' d from Caesar's wing, 
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch : 
Who else would soar above the view of men, 
And keep us all in servile fearfulness. 

Julius Cesar. — Act I. Sc. 1. 

The following is a miserable jumble of expressions, 
arising from an unsteady view of the subject, between 
its figurative and natural appearance : 

But now from gath'ring clouds destruction pours, 
Which ruins with mad rage our halcyon hours : 
Mists from black jealousies the tempest form, 
Whilst late divisions reinforce the storm. 

Dispensary. — Canto III. 

To thee the world its present homage pays, 
The harvest early, but mature the praise. 

Pope's Imitation of Horace, B. 2. 

Dryden, in his dedication of the translation of Ju- 
venal, says — 

When thus, as 1 may say, before the use of the loadstone, or 
knowledge of the compass, I was sailing in a vast ocean, without 
other help than the pole-star of the ancients, and the rules of the 
French stage among the moderns, &c. 

There is a time when factions, by the vehemence of their own 
fermentation, stun and disable one another. Bolingbroke. 

This fault of jumbling the figure and plain expres- 
sion into one confused mass, is not less common in alle- 
gory than in metaphor. 

A few words more upon allegory. Nothing gives 
greater pleasure than this figure, when the representa- 
tive subject bears a strong analogy, in all its circum- 
stances, to that which is represented : but the choice 
is seldom so lucky; the analogy being generally so 
faint and obscure, as to puzzle and not please. An 
allegory is still more difficult in painting than in po- 
etry : the former can show no resemblance but what 
appears to the eye; the latter has many other resources 
for showing the resemblance; and, therefore, with re- 
spect to what the Abbe du Bos terms mixed allegorical 
compositions, these may do in poetry ; because, in wri- 
ting, the allegory can easily be distinguished from the 
historical part ; no person, for example, mistakes Vir- 
gil's Fame for a real being. But such a mixture in $ 



FIGURES. 215 

picture is intolerable ; because, in a picture, the ob* 
jects must appear all of the same kind, wholly real, 
or wholly emblematical. For this reason, the history 
of Mary de Medicis, in the palace of Luxembourg, 
painted by Rubens, is unpleasant by a perpetual jum- 
ble of real and allegorical personages, which produce 
a discordance of parts, and an obscurity upon the 
whole; witness, in particular, the tablature represent 
ing the arrival of Mary de Medicis at Marseilles, where, 
together with the real personages, the Nereids and 
Tritons appear sounding their shells; such a mixture 
of fiction and reality in the same group is strangely 
absurd. The picture of Alexander and Roxana, de- 
scribed by Lucian, is gay and fanciful : but it suffers 
by the allegorical figures. It is not in the wit of man 
to invent an allegorical representation deviating far- 
ther from any shadow of resemblance, than one ex- 
hibited by Lewis XIV. anno 1664: in which an enor- 
mous chariot, intended to represent that of the sun, is 
dragged along, surrounded with men and women, re- 
presenting the four ages of the world, the celestial signs, 
the seasons, the hours, &c. ; a monstrous composition, 
suggested, probably, by Guido's tablature of Aurora, 
and still more absurd. 

In an allegory, as well as in a metaphor, terms ought 
to be chosen that properly and literally are applicable 
to the representative subject ; nor ought any circum- 
stance to be added that is not proper to the represent- 
ative subject, however justly it may be applicable, 
properly or figuratively, to the principal. 

We proceed to the next head, which is, To examine 
in what circumstances these figures are proper, and in 
what improper. This inquiry is not altogether super- 
seded by what is said upon the same subject in the 
chapter of Comparisons; because, upon trial, it will 
be found, that a short metaphor, or allegory, may be 
proper, where a simile, drawn out to a greater length, 
and in its nature more solemn, would scarce be relished. 

And first. A metaphor,. like a simile, is excluded from 



216 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

common conversation, and from the description of or- 
dinary incidents. 

Second, In expressing any severe passion that wholly 
occupies the mind, metaphor is improper. For which 
reason, the following speech of Macbeth is faulty : 

/ Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more ! 
Macbeth doth murder sleep : the innocent sleep ; 
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of Care, 
The birth of each day's life, sore Labor's bath, 
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course, 
Chief nourisher in Life's feast. Act II. Sc. 3. 

The following example of deep despair, beside the 
highly figurative style, hath more the air of raving than 
of sense : 

Calista. Is it the voice of thunder, or my father? 
Madness ! coDfusion ! let the storm come on, 
Let the tumultuous roar drive all upon me, 
Dash my devoted bark ; ye surges, break it : 
'Tis for my ruin that the tempest rises. 
When I am lost, sunk to the bottom low, 
Peace shall return, and all be calm again. 

Fair Penitent. — Act IV. 

The metaphor I next introduce is sweet and lively ; 
but it suits not a fiery temper inflamed with passion. 
Parables are not the language of wrath, venting itself 
without restraint : 

Chamont. You took her up a little tender flower, 
Just sprouted on a bank, which the next frost 
Had nipp'd; and, with a careful loving hand, 
Transplanted her into your own fair garden, 
Where the sun always shines : there long she flourished, 
Grew sweet to sense, and lovely to the eye, 
Till at the last a cruel spoiler came, 
Cropt this fair rose, and rifled all its sweetness, 
Then cast it like a loathsome weed away. 

Orphan. — Act IV. 

The following speech, full of imagery, is not natural 
in grief and dejection of mind : 

Gonsalez, O my son ! from the blind dotage 
Of a father's fondness, these ills arose. 
For thee I've been ambitious, base, and bloody; 
For thee I've plung'd into this sea of sin; 
Stemming the tide with only one weak hand, 



FIGURES. 217 

While t'other bore the crown (to wreath thy brow,) 
Whose weight has sunk me ere I reach'd the shore. 

Mourning Bride. — Act V. Sc. 6. 

There is an enchanting picture of deep distress in 
Macbeth,* where Macduff is represented lamenting his 
wife and children, inhumanly murdered by the tyrant. 
Stung to the heart with the news, he questions the 
messenger over and over ; not that he doubted the fact, 
but that his heart revolted against so cruel a misfor- 
tune. After struggling some time with his grief, he 
turns from his wife and children to their savage butcher, 
and then gives vent to his resentment, but still with 
manliness and dignity. 

Oh ! I could play the woman with mine eyes, 
And braggart with my tongue. But, gentle Heav'n ! 
Cut short all intermission ; front to front 
Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself: 
Within nry sword's length set him. If he 'scape, 
Then Heav'n forgive him too. 

The whole scene is a delicious picture of human 
nature. One expression only seems doubtful ; in ex- 
amining the messenger, Macduff expresses himself 
thus: 

He hath no children. All mv pretty ones ! 
Did you say, all ? what, all ? Oh, hell-kite ! all ? 
What ! All my pretty little chickens and their dam, 
At one fell swoop ! 

Metaphorical expression, I am sensible, may some- 
times be used with grace, where a regular simile would 
be intolerable ; but there are situations so severe and 
dispiriting, as not to admit even the slightest metaphor. 
It requires great delicacy of taste to determine with 
firmness, whether the present case be of that kind ; 
I incline to think it is ; and yet I would not willingly 
alter a single word of this admirable scene. 

But metaphorical language is proper when a man 
struggles to bear with dignity or decency a misfortune 

* Act IV. Sc. 6 
T 



218 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

however great : the struggle agitates and animates the 
mind : 

Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness I 
This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth 
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms, 
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ; 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, 
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely 
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, 
And then he falls as I do. 

Henry VIII.— Act III. Sc. 6, 



Section VII. — Figure of Speech. 

In the section immediately foregoing, a figure ol 
speech is defined, "The using a word in a sense differ- 
ent from what is proper to it ;" and the , new or uncom- 
mon sense of the word is termed the figurative sense. 
The figurative sense must have a relation to that 
which is proper ; and the more intimate the relation 
is, the figure is the more happy. How ornamental this 
figure is to language, will not be readily imagined by 
any one who hath not given peculiar attention ; and 
therefore I shall endeavor to unfold its capital beauties 
and advantages. In the first place, a word used figu- 
ratively, or in a new sense, suggests, at the same time, 
the sense it commonly bears : and thus it has the effect 
to present two objects; one signified by the figurative 
sense, which may be termed the principal object ; and 
one signified by the proper sense, which may be termed 
accessory ;\ the principal makes a part of the thought; 
the accessory is merely ornamental! In this respect, 
a figure of speech is precisely similar to concordant 
sounds in music, which, without contributing to the 
melody, makes it harmonious. I explain myself by 
examples. Youth, by a figure of speech, is termed the 
morning of life. This expression signifies youth, the 
principal object, which enters into the thought : it 
suggests, at the same time, the proper sense of morn^ 
ing; and this accessory object, being in itself beautiful, 
arid connected by resemblance to the principal object, 



FIGURES. 219 

is not a little ornamental. Imperious ocean is an exam- 
ple of a different kind, where an attribute is expressed 
figuratively : together with stormy, the figurative mean- 
ing of the epithet imperious, there is suggested its prop- 
er meaning, viz. the stern authority of a despotic 
prince ; and these two are strongly connected by re- 
semblance. 

In the next place, this figure possesses a signal pow- 
er of aggrandizing an object by the following means. 
Words which have no original beauty but what arises 
from their sound, acquire an adventitious beauty from 
their meaning : a word signifying any thing that is 
agreeable, becomes, by that means, agreeable ; for the 
agreeableness of the object is communicated to its 
name. This acquired beauty, by the force of custom, 
adheres to the word even when used figuratively ; and 
the beauty received from the thing it properly signi- 
fies, is communicated to the thing which it is made to 
signify figuratively. Consider the foregoing expression, 
imperious ocean, how 7 much more elevated it is than 
stormy ocean. 

Thirdly, this figure hath a happy effect, by prevent- 
ing the familiarity of proper names. The familiarity 
of a proper name is communicated to the thing it sig- 
nifies, by means of their intimate connexion ; and the 
thing is thereby brought down in our own feeling. 
This bad effect is prevented by using a figurative word 
instead of the one that is proper; as, for example., 
when we express the sky by terming it the blue vault 
of heaven; for, though no work of art can compare 
with the sky in grandeur, the expression however is 
relished, because it prevents the object from being 
brought down by the familiarity of its proper name. 

Lastly, by this figure, language is enriched, and ren- 
dered more copious ; in which respect, were there no 
other, a figure of speech is a happy invention. 

The beauties I have mentioned belong to every 
figure of speech. Several other beauties, peculiar to 



220 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

one or other sort, I shall have occasion to remark af- 
terward. 

Not only subjects, but qualities, actions, effects, may 
be expressed figuratively. Thus, as to subjects, the 
gates of breath for the lips, the watery kingdom for the 
ocean. As to qualities, fierce for stormy, in the ex- 
pression Fierce winter: Breathing for perspiring; Breathing 
plants. Again, as to actions, The sea rages, Time will 
melt her frozen thoughts, Time kills grief.-*'"' An effect 
is put for the cause, as light for the sun ; and a cause 
for the effect, as thejabors of oxen for corn. The rela- 
tion of resemblance is one plentiful source of figures 
of speech ; and nothing is more common than to apply 
to one object the name of another that resembles it 
in any respect. Height, size, and worldly greatness, 
resemble not each other ; but the emotions they pro- 
duce resemble each other ; and, prompted by this re- 
semblance, we naturally express worldly greatness by 
height or size : one feels a certain uneasiness in seeing 
a great depth ; and hence depth is made to express 
any thing disagreeable by excess, as depth of grief, 
depth of despair : again, height of place, and time long 
past, produce similar feelings : distance in past time, 
producing a strong feeling, is put for any strong feeling: 
shortness with relation to space, for shortness with 
relation to time: suffering a punishment resembles 
paying a debt : in the same manner, light may be put 
for glory, sunshine for prosperity, and weight for im- 
portance. 

Many words, originally figurative, having, by long 
and constant use, lost their figurative power, are de- 
graded to the inferior rank of proper terms. Thus, 
the words that express the operations of the mind, 
have in all languages been originally figurative : the 
reason holds in all, that when these operations came 
first under consideration, there was no other way of 
describing them, but by what they resembled : it was 
not practicable to give them proper names, as may be 
done to objects that can be ascertained by sight and 



FIGURES. 221 

touch. A soft nature, jarring tempers, zceight of woe, 
pompous phrase, beget compassion, assuage grief, break 
a vow, bend the eye downward, shower down curses, 
drowned in tears, wrapt in joy, warmed with eloquence, 
loaded with spoils, and a thousand other expressions of 
the like nature, have lost their figurative sense. Some 
terms there are that cannot be said to he either alto- 
gether figurative, or altogether proper : originally figu- 
rative, they are tending to simplicity, without having 
lost altogether their figurative power. 

REVIEW. 

Give examples of the figure which, among related objects, ex- 
tends the properties of one to another. 

What remarks are made on them ? 

From what principle is this figure derived ? 

Give examples of this figure. 

Which is the more agreeable species of this figure ? 

What is the difference between a metaphor and an allegory ? 

Give an illustration of this. 

From what does the pleasure arise ? 

Illustrate this by examples. 

What is a metaphor ? 

What is an allegory ? 

Give an example of an allegory. 

To what is an allegory compared? 

How does a figure of speech differ from a metaphor, and how 
from an allegory? 

How is a figure of speech defined ? 

Illustrate this. -^ 

What examples are given to illustrate the nature of an alle- 
gory ? 

To what two figures do the same rules apply ? 

What is the rule with respect to resemblance ? 

Give examples of its violation. 

What is the rule with respect to proportion ? 

What is the rule with respect to minute circumstances ? 

What poet violates this rule? 

What is the rule with respect to the words of a metaphor ? 

Give an example of its violation. 

What is a mixed metaphor ? — is it allowable ? 

Is it proper to join distinct metaphors in one period? 

What is the effect of jumbling metaphorical and natural ex 
pressions. 

Give examples. 

When is an allegory very attractive ? 

Why is allegory more difficult in painting than in poetry? 
T2 



222 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Why are mixed allegories intolerable in a picture ? 

What examples are mentioned ? 

When is a metaphor improper ? 

Why is Macbeth's speech faulty ? 

Why are the speeches of Calista and Chamont faulty? 

Point out the metaphors in the speeches of Gonsalez and Mac 
duff. 

Why is the metaphor in Wolsey's speech commended ? 

What is meant by Figure of Speech ? — by figurative sense ? 

What is the rule concerning the figurative sense? 

What are the two objects presented by a figurative expression 
called ? — how are they signified ? 

Analyze the sentence " youth is the morning of life." — " Imperi 
ous ocean" 

What power has this figure? 

How do words acquire beauty ? 

Of what use is this acquired beauty in figures ? 

How may the familiarity of proper names be prevented ? 

Give an example. 

What is the effect of this figure on language ? 

What besides subjects may be expressed figuratively ? 

Give examples of subjects — of qualities — of actions — of an effect 
for the cause — of a cause for the effect — of the relation of resem 
blance. 

Give examples of words which have lost their figurative power 



CHAPTER XXI. 

Nmration and Description. 

Horace, and many critics after him, exhort writers 
to choose a subject adapted to their genius. Such ob- 
servations would multiply rules of criticism without 
end ; and at any rate belong not to the present work, 
the object of which is human nature in general, and 
what is common to the species. But though the choice 
of a subject comes not under such a^lan, the manner 
of execution comes under it ; because the manner of 
execution is subjected to general rules, derived from 
principles common to the species. These rules, as they 
concern the things expressed, as well as the language 
or expression, require a division of this chapter into 
two parts ; first of thoughts, and next of words. I pre- 
tend not to justify this division as entirely accurate : 



IVARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 223 

for, in discoursing of thoughts, it is difficult to abstract 
altogether from the words ; and still more difficult, in 
discoursing of words, to abstract altogether from the 
thought. 

The first rule is, That in history the reflections ought 
to be chaste and solid; for while the mind is intent 
upon truth, it is little disposed to the operations of the 
imagination. Strada's Belgic History is full of poet- 
ical images, which, discording with the subject, are 
unpleasant ; and they have a still worse effect, by giv- 
ing an air of fiction to a genuine history. Such flow- 
ers ought to be scattered with a sparing hand, even in 
epic poetry; and at no rate are they proper till the 
reader be warmed, and by an enlivened imagination 
be prepared to relish them ; in that state of mind they 
are agreeable : but while we are sedate and attentive 
to an historical chain of facts, we reject with disdain 
every fiction. This Belgic History is indeed wofully 
vicious both in matter and in form : it is stuffed with 
frigid andunmeaning reflections; and its poetical flashes, 
even laying aside their impropriety, are mere tinsel. 

Second, Vida,* following Horace, recommends a mod- 
est commencement of an epic poem ; giving for a rea- 
son, that the writer ought to husband his fire. This 
reason has weight ; but what is said above suggests a 
reason still more weighty : bold thoughts and figures 
are never relished till the mind be heated and tho- 
roughly engaged, which is not the reader's case at the 
commencement. Homer introduces not a single simile 
in the first book of the Iliad, nor in the first book of 
the Odyssey. On the other hand, Shakspeare begins 
one of his plays with a sentiment too bold for the most 
heated imagination ■ 

Bedford. Hung be the heav'ns with black, yield day 
to night ! 
Comets, importing change of times and states, 
Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky, 
And with them scourge the bad revolting stars, 

* Poet. lib. 2. 1. 30. 



224 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

That have consented unto Henry's death ! 
Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long ! 
England ne'er lost a king of so much worth. 

First Part Henry VI. 

The passage with which Strada begins his history, 
is too poetical for a subject of that kind ; and at any 
rate, too high for the beginning of a grave perform- 
ance. A third* reason ought to have no less influence 
than either of the former, That a man, w T ho, upon his 
first appearance, strains to make a figure, is too osten- 
tatious to be relished. Hence, the first sentences of a 
work ought to be short, natural, and simple. Cicero, 
in his oration for the poet Archias, errs against this 
rule ; his reader is out of breath at the very first pe- 
riod ; which seems never to end. Burnet begins the 
History of his Own Times with a period long and in- 
tricate. 

A third rule or observation is, That where the sub- 
ject is intended for entertainment solely, not for in- 
struction, a thing ought to be described as it appears, 
not as it is in reality. In running, for example, the 
impulse upon the ground is proportioned in some de- 
gree to the celerity of motion ; though in appearance 
it is otherwise ; for a person in swift motion seems to 
skim the ground, and scarcely to touch it. 

Fourth, In narration as well as in description, ob- 
jects ought to be painted so accurately as to form in 
the mind of the reader distinct and lively images. 
Every useless circumstance ought indeed to be sup- 
pressed, because every such circumstance loads the 
narration ; but if a circumstance be necessary, how- 
ever slight, it cannot be described too minutely. The 
force of language consists in raising complete images ; 
which have the effect to transport the reader as by 
magic into the very place of the important action, and 
to convert him as it were into a spectator, beholding 
every thing that passes. The narrative in an epic 
poem ought to rival a picture in the liveliness and ac- 
curacy of its representations: no circumstance must 



NARRATION" AND DESCRIPTION. 225 

be omitted that tends to make a complete image ; be- 
cause an imperfect image, as well as any other imper- 
fect conception, is cold and uninteresting. I shall illus- 
trate this rule by several examples. 

Shakspeare says,* "You may as well go about to 
turn the sun to ice by fanning in his face with a pea- 
cock's feather." The peacock's feather, not to mention 
the beauty of the object, completes the image : an ac- 
curate image cannot be formed of that fanciful opera- 
tion, without conceiving a particular feather ; and one 
is at a loss when this is neglected in the description. 
Again, " The rogues slighted me into the river with as 
little remorse as they would have drown'd a bitch's 
blind puppies, fifteen i' th' litter."f 

Old Lady. You would not be a queen ? 
Anne. No, not for all the riches under heaven. 
Old Lady, 'Tis strange: a threepence bow'd would hire me, 
old as I am, to queen it. Henry VIII. — Act II. Sc. 5. 

In the following passage, the action, with all its ma- 
terial circumstances, is represented so much to the life, 
that it would scarce appear more distinct to a real 
spectator; and it is the manner of description that 
contributes greatly to the sublimity of the passage : 

He spake; and, to confirm his words, out flew 
Millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs 
Of mighty cherubim ; the sudden blaze 
Far round illumin'd hell : highly they rag'd 
Against the Highest, and fierce with grasped arms 
Ciash'd on their sounding shields the din of war, 
Hurling defiance toward the vault of heav'n. 

Milton, — Book I. 

A passage I am to cite from Shakspeare, falls not 
much short of that now mentioned, in particularity of 
description : 

O you hard hearts ! you cruel men of Rome ! 
Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft 
Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, 
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, 

* Henry V. Act IV. Sc. 4. 

f Merry "Wives of Windsor, Act III. Sc. 5. 



226 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. 

Your infants in your arms ; and there have sat 
The livelong day, with patient expectation, 
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome ; 
And when you saw his chariot hut appear, 
Have you not made an universal shout, 
That Tiber trembled underneath his banks, 
To hear the replication of your sounds, 
Made in his concave shores ? 

Julius Cesar. — Act I. Sc. 1. 

The following passage is scarce inferior to either of 
those mentioned : 

Far before the rest, the son of Ossian comes ; bright in the 
smiles of youth, fair as the first beams of the sun. His long hair 
waves on his back : his dark brow is half beneath his helmet. The 
sword hangs loose on the hero's side : and his spear glitters as he 
moves. I lied from his terrible eye, king of high Temora. 

FlNGAL. 

The Henriade of Voltaire errs greatly against the 
foregoing rule: every incident is touched in a summary 
way, without ever descending to circumstances. This 
manner is good in a general history, the purpose of 
which is to record important transactions: but in a 
fable it is cold and uninteresting ; because it is imprac- 
ticable to form distinct images of persons or things re- 
presented in a manner so superficial. 

It is observed above, that every useless circumstance 
ought to be suppressed. The crowding such circum- 
stances is, on the one hand, no less to be avoided, than 
the conciseness for which Voltaire is blamed, on the 
other. In the Mneid^ Barce, the nurse of Sichasus, 
whom we never hear of before nor after, is introduced 
for a purpose not more important than to call Anna to 
her sister Dido ; and that it might not be thought un- 
just in Dido, even in this trivial circumstance, to pre- 
fer her husband's nurse before her own, the poet takes 
care to inform his reader, that Dido's nurse was dead. 

As an appendix to the foregoing rule, I add the fol- 
lowing observation, That, to make a sudden and strong 
impression, some single circumstance, happily selected, 
has more power than the most labored description. 

* Lib. 4. 1. 632. 



NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 227 

Macbeth, mentioning to his lady some voices he heard 
while he was murdering the king, says- 
There 's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried Murder! 
They wak'd each othe^; and I stood and heard them: 
But they did say their prayers, and address them 
Again to sleep. 

Lady. There are two lodg'd together. 

Macbeth. One cried, God^bless us ! and Amen the other; 
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. 
Listening their fear, I could not say Amen, 
When they did say, God bless us. 

Lady. Consider it not so deeply. 

Macbeth. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen? 
I had most need of blessing, and Amen 
Stuck in my throat. 

Lady. These deeds must not be thought 
After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 

Macbeth. Methought I heard a voice cry, Sleep no more! 
Macbeth doth murder sleep ! Szc. Act II. Sc. 3. 

Alphonso, in the Mourning Bride, shut up in the 
same prison where his father had been confined : 

In a dark corner of my cell I found 

This paper : what it is this light will show. 

" If my Alphonso" Ha ! [Reading. 

" If my Alphonso live, restore him Heav'n ; 

Give me more weight, crush my declining years 

With bolts, with chains, imprisonment, and want; 

But bless my son, visit not him for me." 

It is his hand : this was his pray'r — Yet more : 

" Let ev'ry hair, which sorrow by the roots [Reading. 

Tears from my hoary and devoted head, 

Be doubled in thy mercies to my son : 

Not for myself, but him, hear me, all-gracious" — 

'Tis wanting what should follow Heav'n should follow,. 

But 'tis torn off — Why should that word alone 

Be torn from his petition ? 'Twas to Heav'n, 

But Heav'n was deaf, Heav'n heard him not ; but thus, 

Thus as the name of Heav'n from this is torn, 

So did it tear the ears of mercy from 

His voice, shutting the gates of pray'r against him. 

If piety be thus debarr'd access 

On high, and of good men the very best 

Is singled out to bleed, and bear the scourge, 

What is reward ? or, What is punishment ? 

But who shall dare to tax eternal justice ? 

Mourning Bride. — Act III. Sc. I. 

This incident is a happy invention, and a mark of 
uncommon genius. 



228 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Describing Prince Henry : 

I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, 
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm'd, 
Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury ; 
And vaulted with such ease into his seat, 
As if an angel dropt down from the clouds, 
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus, 
And witch the world with noble horsemanship. 

First Part Henry VI. — Act IV. Sc. 2. 

King Henry, Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on Heaven's 
bliss, 
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. — 
He dies, and makes no sign ! 

Second Part Henry VI. — Act III. Sc. 10 

The same author, speaking ludicrously of an army 
debilitated with diseases, says — 

Half of them dare not shake the snow from off their cassocks, 
lest they shake themselves to pieces. 

I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The 
flame had resounded in the halls ; and the voice of the people is 
heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place 
by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook there its lonely head : 
the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the win- 
dows : and the rank grass of the wall waved round his head. Deso- 
late is the dwelling of Morna : silence is in the house of her fathers. 

Fingal. 

To draw a character is the master-stroke of descrip- 
tion. In this Tacitus excels ; his portraits are natural 
and lively, not a feature wanting nor misplaced. Shak- 
speare, however, exceeds Tacitus in liveliness; some 
characteristical circumstance being generally invented, 
or laid hold of, which paints more to the life than many • 
words. The following instance will explain my mean- 
ing, and, at the same time, prove my observation to be 
just : 

Why should a man, whose blood is warm within. 
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster ? 
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice, 
By being peevish ? I tell thee what, Antonio, 
(1 love thee, and it is my love that speaks,) 
There are a sort of men, whose visages 
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond; 
And do a wilful stillness entertain, 
With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion 



NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 229 

Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; 
As who should say, I am Sir Oracle, 
And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark ! 
O my Antonio, I do know of those, 
That therefore only are reputed wise, 
For saying nothing. 

Merchant of Venice. — Act I. Sc. 2. 

Again : 

Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man 
in all Venice ; his reasons are like two grains of wheat hid in two 
bushels of chaff; you shall seek all day ere you find them, and 
when you have them, they are not worth the search. Ibid. 

In the following passage, a character is completed 
by a single stroke : 

Shallow. O the mad days that I have spent ; and to see how 
many of mine old acquaintance are dead. 

Silence. We shall all follow, Cousin. 

Shallow. Certain, 'tis certain, very sure. Death (as the Psalm- 
ist saith) is certain to all : all shall die. How a good yoke of bul- 
locks at Stamford fair ? 

Slender. Truly, Cousin, I was not there. 

Shallow. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living 
yet? 

Silence. Dead, Sir. 

Shallow. Dead! see, see ; he drew a good bow: and dead. He 
shot a fine shoot. How a score of ewes now ? 

Silence. Thereafter as they be. A score of good ewes may be 
worth ten pounds. 

Shallow. And is old Double dead ? 

Second Part Henry IV. — Act III. Sc. 3. 

Congreve has an inimitable stroke of this kind in his 

comedy of Love for Love : 

Ben Legend. Well, father, and how do all at home ? how does 
brother Dick, and brother Val ? 

Sir Sampson. Dick ! body o' me, Dick has been dead these two 
years. I writ you word when you were at Leghorn. 

Ben. Mess, that's true: marry, I had forgot. Dick's dead, as 
vou say. Act III. Sc. 6. 

Falstaff, speaking of ancient Pistol : 

He 's no swaggerer, hostess : a tame cheater, i' faith ; you may 
stroke him as gently as a puppy-greyhound ; he will not swagger 
with a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of re- 
sistance. Second Part Henry IV. — Act II. Sc. 9. 

Ossian, among his other excellencies, is eminently- 
successful in drawing characters : and he never fails 

U 



230 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

to delight his reader with the beautiful attitudes of hi 
heroes. Take the following instances : 

O Oscar ! bend the strong in arm ; but spare the feeble hand. 
Be thou a stream of many tides against the foes of thy people ; 
but like the gale that moves the grass to those who ask thine aid. 
— So Tremor lived ; such Trathal was ; and such has Fingal been. 
My arm was the support of the injured ; and the weak rested be- 
hind the lightning of my steel. 

We heard the voice of joy on the coast, and we thought that the 
mighty Cathmore came. Cathmore, the friend of strangers ! the 
brother of red-haired Cairbar. But their souls were not the same ; 
for the light of heaven was in the bosom of Cathmore. His tow* 
ers rose on the banks of Atha ; seven paths led to his halls : seven 
chiefs stood on these paths, and called the stranger to the feast. 
But Cathmore dwelt in the wood to avoid the voice of praise. 

Dermid and Oscar were one : they reaped the battle together. 
Their friendship was strong as their steel : and death walked be- 
tween them to the field. They rush on the foe like two rocks fall- 
ing from the brow of Ardven. Their swords are stained with the 
blood of the valiant : warriors faint at their name. Who is equal 
to Oscar but Dermid ? Who to Dermid but Oscar ? 

Son of Comhal, replied the chief, the strength of Morni's arm 
has failed. I attempt to draw the sword of my youth, but it re- 
mains in its place : I throw the spear, but it falls short of the mark : 
and I feel the weight of my shield. We decay like the grass of 
the mountain, and our strength returns no more. I have a son, O 
Fingal ! his soul has delighted in the actions of Morni's youth ; 
but his sword has not been fitted against the foe, neither has his 
fame begun. I come with him to battle, to direct his arm. His 
renown will be a sun to my soul in the dark hour of my depar- 
ture. O that the name of Morni were forgot among the people ! 
that the heroes would only say, " Behold the father of Gaul." 

Some writers, through heat of imagination, fall into 
contradiction ; some are guilty of downright absurdi- 
ties ; and some even rave like madmen. Against such 
capital errors, one cannot be more effectually warned 
than by collecting instances. 

When first young Maro, in his boundless mind, 
A work t' outlast immortal Rome design'd. 

Essay on Criticism, 1. 130. 

The following are examples of absurdities : 

He fled; but flying left his life behind. Iliad, xi. 433. 

Full through his neck the weighty falchion sped ; 
Along the pavement roll'd the muttering head. 

Odyssey, xxii. 365. 



NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 231 

The last article is of raving, like one mad. Cleo- 
patra, speaking to the aspic : 

Welcome, thou kind deceiver, 
Thou best of thieves ; who, with an easy key, 
Dost open life, and unperceiv'd by us, 
Ev'n steal us from ourselves; discharging so 
Death's dreadful office, better than himself; 
Touching our limbs so gently into slumber, 
That Death stands by, deceiv'd by his own image, 
And thinks himself but Sleep. 

Dryden. — All for Love, Act V. 

Reasons that are common and known to every one, 
ought to be taken for granted; to express them is child- 
ish, and interrupts the narration. 

Having discussed what observations occurred upon 
the thoughts, or things, expressed, I proceed to what 
more peculiarly concerns the language or verbal dress. 
The language proper for expressing passion, being 
handled in a former chapter, several observations there 
made are applicable to the present subject; particu- 
larly, that as words are intimately connected with the 
ideas they represent, the emotions raised by the sound 
and by the sense, ought to be concordant. An elevated 
subject requires an elevated style ; what is familiar, 
ought to be familiarly expressed; a subject that is se- 
rious and important, ought to be clothed in plain ner- 
vous language ; a description, on the other hand, ad- 
dressed to the imagination, is susceptible of the highest 
ornaments that sounding words and figurative expres- 
sion can bestow upon it. 

I shall give a few examples of the foregoing rules. 
A poet of any genius is not apt to dress a high subject 
in low words ; and yet blemishes of that kind are found 
even in classical works : 

Not one looks backward, onward still he goes, 
Yet ne'er looks forward further than his nose. 

Essay ox Man, Ep. iv. 223. 

On the other hand, to raise the expression above the 
tone of the subject, is a fault than which nothing is 
more common. Take the following instances : 



232 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day, 
But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell ; 
And the king's rowse the heav'ns shall bruit again, 
Bespeaking earthly thunder. 

Hamlet. — Act I. Sc. 2. 

In the inner room 
I spy a winking lamp, that weakly strikes 
The ambient air, scarce kindling into light. 

Southern. — Fate of Capua, Act 3. 

The following passage, intended, one would imagine 
as a receipt to boil water, is altogether burlesque, by 
the labored elevation of the diction : 

A massy caldron of stupendous frame 
They brought, and plac'd it o'er the rising flame : 
Then heap the lighted wood ; the flame divides 
Beneath the vase, and climbs around the sides : 
In its wide womb they pour the rushing stream : 
The boiling water bubbles to the brim. 

Iliad, xviii. 405. 

The language of Homer is suited to his subject, no 
less accurately than the actions and sentiments of his 
heroes are to their characters. Virgil, in that particu- 
lar, falls short of perfection : his language is stately 
throughout; and though he descends at times to the 
simplest branches of cookery, roasting and boiling, for 
example, yet he never relaxes a moment from the high 
tone.* In adjusting his language to his subject, no writer 
equals Swift. I can recollect but one exception, which, 
at the same time, is far from being gross : The Journal 
of a Modern Lady is composed in a style blending 
sprightliness with familiarity, perfectly suited to the 
subject: in one passage, however, the poet, deviating 
from that style, takes a tone above his subject. The 
passage I have in view, begins L 116, But let me now 
azvhile survey, &c. and ends at /. 135. 

It is proper to be observed upon this head, that wri- 
ters of inferior rank are continually upon the stretch 
to enliven and enforce their subject by exaggeration 
and superlatives. This unluckily has an effect con- 
trary to what is intended ; the reader, disgusted with 

* See ^neid, lib. i. 188—219. 



NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 233 

language that swells above the subject, is led by con- 
trast to think more meanly of the subject than it may 
possibly deserve. A man of prudence, beside, will be 
no less careful to husband his strength in writing than 
in walking; a writer too liberal of superlatives, ex- 
hausts his whole stock upon ordinary incidents, and re- 
serves no share to express, with greater energy, mat- 
ters of importance.* 

Many writers of that kind abound so in epithets, as 
if poetry consisted entirely in high-sounding words. 
Take the following instance : 

When black-brow'd Night her dusky mantle spread, 

And wrapt in solemn gloom the sable sky ; 
When soothing Sleep her opiate dews had shed, 

And seal'd in silkea slumber ev'ry eye: 
My wakeful thoughts admit no balmy rest, 

Nor the sweet bliss of soft oblivion share ; 
But watchful woe distracts my aching breast, 

My heart the subject of corroding care : 
From haunts of men, with wand'ring steps and slow, 
I solitary steal, and soothe my pensive woe. 

Here every substantive is faithfully attended by 
some tumid epithet ; like young master, who cannot 
walk abroad without having a laced livery-man at his 
heels. Thus, in reading without taste, an emphasis 
is laid on every word; and in singing without taste, 
every note is graced. Such redundancy of epithets, 
instead of pleasing, produces satiety and disgust. 

The power of language to imitate thought, is not 
confined to the capital circumstances above mentioned; 
it reacheth even the slighter modifications. Slow ac- 
tion, for example, is imitated by words pronounced 
slow : labor, or toil, by words harsh or rough in their 
sound. But this subject has been already handled. 

* Montaigne, reflecting upon the then present modes, observes 
that there never was, at any time, so abject and servile prostitu- 
tion of words in the addresses made by people of fashion to one 
another ; the humblest tenders of life and soul, no professions un- 
der that of devotion and adoration; the writer constantly declar 
ing himself a vassal, nay, a slave ; so that when any more serious 
occasion of friendship or gratitude requires more genuine profes- 
sions, words are wanting to express them. 

U2 



234 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

In dialogue-writing, the condition of the speaker is 
chiefly to be regarded in framing the expression; The 
sentinel in Hamlet, interrogated with relation to the 
ghost, Whether his watch had been quiet? answers 
with great propriety for a man in his station, " Not a 
mouse stirring."* 

I proceed to a second remark, no less important than 
the former. No person of reflection but must be sen- 
sible, that an incident makes a stronger impression on 
an eye-witness than when heard at second-hand. — 
Writers of genius, sensible that the eye is the best 
avenue to the heart, represent every thing as passing 
in our sight ; and, from readers or hearers, transform 
us, as it were, into spectators : a skilful writer conceals 
himself, and presents his personages ; in a word, every 
thing becomes dramatic as much as possible. Plutarch, 
observes, that Thucydides makes his reader a spec- 
tator, and inspires him with the same passions as if 
he were an eye-witness ; and the same observation 
is applicable to our countryman Swift. From thi3 
happy talent arises that energy of style which is 
peculiar to him ; he cannot always avoid narration ; 
but the pencil is his choice, by which he bestows 
life and coloring upon his objects. Pope is richer 
in ornament, but possesseth not in the same degree 
the talent of drawing from the life. A translation 
of the sixth satire of Horace, begun by the former 
and finished by the latter, affords the fairest opportu- 
nity for a comparison. Pope obviously imitates the 
picturesque manner of his friend; yet every one of 
taste must be sensible, that the imitation, though fine, 
falls short of the original. In other instances, where 

* One can scarce avoid smiling at the blindness of a certain 
critic, who, with an air of self-sufficiency, condemns this expres- 
sion as low and vulgar. A French poet, says he, would express 
the same thought in a more sublime manner : " Mais tout dort, 
et l'armee, et les vents, et Neptune." And he adds, "The En- 
glish poet may please at London, but the French everywhere 
else." 



NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 235 

Pope writes in his own style, the difference of manner 
is still more conspicuous. 

Abstract or general terms have no good effect in 
any composition for amusement ; because it is only of 
particular objects that images can be formed. Shak- 
speare's style in that respect is excellent: every article 
in his descriptions is particular, as in nature ; and if, 
accidentally, a vague expression slip in, the blemish is 
discernible by the bluntness of its expression. 

In the fine arts, it is a rule to put the capital objects 
in the strongest point of view ; and even to present 
them oftener than once, where it can be done. In 
history-painting, the principal figure is placed in the 
front, and in the best light: an equestrian statue is 
placed in the centre of streets, that it may be seen 
from many places at once. In no composition is there 
greater opportunity for this rule than in writing ; 

Full many a lady 
I Ve ey'd with best regard, and many a time 
Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage 
Brought my too diligent ear ; for several virtues 
Have I lik'd several women, never any 
With so full soul, but some defect in her 
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she own'd, 
And put it to the foil. But you, O you, 
So perfect, and so peerless, are created 
Of ev'ry creature's best. Tempest. — Act III. Sc. 1 

Orlando, Whate'er you are 

That in this desert inaccessible, 
Under the shade of melancholy boughs, 
Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time ; 
If ever you have look'd on better days ; 
If ever been where bells have knoll'd to church ; 
If ever sat at any good man's feast ; 
If ever from your eyelids wip'd a tear. 
And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied ; 
Let gentleness my strong enforcement be, 
In the which hope I blush and hide my sword. 

Duke sen. True is it that we have seen better days ; 
And have with holy bell been knoll'd to church; 
And sat at good men's feasts ; and wip'd our eyes 
Of drops that sacred pity had engender'd : 
And therefore sit you down in gentleness, 
And take upon command what help we have, 
That to your wanting may be minister'd. 

As you like It. 



236 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

With thee conversing I forget all time : 
All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, 
When first on this delightful land he spreads 
His orient beams, on herbs, tree, fruit, and flow'r, 
Glist'ning with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on 
Of grateful evening mild, and silent night 
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
And these the gems of heav'n, her starry train. 
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
With charm of earliest bird, nor rising sun 
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit^ flow'r, 
Glist'ning with dew, nor fragrance after showers, 
Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night, 
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon 
Or glitt'ring starlight, without thee is sweet. 

Paradise Lost. — Book IV 1. 634. 

The repetitions in Homer, which are frequent, have 
been the occasion of much criticism. Suppose we 
were at a loss about the reason, might not taste be 
sufficient to justify them ? At the same time, we are at 
no loss about the reason ; they evidently make the 
narration dramatic, and have an air of truth, by 
making things appear as passing in our sight. But 
such repetitions are unpardonable in a didactic poem. 
In one of Hesiod's poems of that kind, a long passage 
occurs twice in the same chapter. 

A concise comprehensive style is a great ornament 
in narration; and superfluity of unnecessary words, 
no less than of circumstances, a great nuisance. A 
judicious selection of the striking circumstances, clothed 
in a nervous style, is delightful. In this style, Tacitus 
excels all writers ancient and modern. 

After Tacitus, Ossian in that respect justly merits 
the place of distinction. One cannot go wrong for 
examples in any part of the book ; and at the first 
opening the following instance meets the eye : 

Nathos clqthed his limbs in shining steel. The stride of the 
chief is lovely ; the joy of his eye terrible. The wind rustles in 
his hair. Carthula is silent at his side : her look is fixed on the 
chief. Striving to hide the rising sigh, two tears swell in her eye. 



NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 237 

I add one other instance, which, beside the property 
under consideration, raises delicately our most tender 
sympathy. 

Son of Fingal ! dost thou not behold the darkness of Crothar s 
hall of shells ? My soul was not dark at the feast, when my people 
lived. I rejoiced in the presence of strangers, when my son shone 
in the hall. But Ossian, he is a beam that is departed, and left no 
streak of light behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal, in the battles 
of his father. Rothmar, the chief of grassy Tromlo, heard that 
my eyes had failed ; he heard that my arms were fixed in the hall, 
and the pride of his soul arose. He came towards Croma: my 
people fell before him. I took my arms in the hall, but what could 
sightless Crothar do ? My steps were unequal ; my grief was great. 
I wished for the days that were past : days ! wherein 1 fought and 
won in the field of blood. My son returned from the chase ; the 
fair-haired Fovar-gormo. He had not lifted his sword in battle, 
for his arm was young. But the soul of the youth was great ; the 
fire of valor burnt in his eye. He saw the disordered steps of 
his father, and his sigh arose. King of Croma, he said, is it be- 
cause thou hast no son ? is it for the weakness of Fovar-gormo's 
arm that thy sighs arise? I begin, my father, to feel the strength of 
my arm; I have drawn the sword of my youth, and I have bent 
the bow. Let me meet this Rothmar, with the youths of Croma; 
let me meet him, O my father, for I feel my burning soul. 

And thou shalt meet him, I said, son of the sightless Crothar I 
But let others advance before thee, that I may hear the tread of 
thy feet at thy return ; for my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired 
Fovar-gorma ! He went : he met the foe ; he fell. The foe ad- 
vances towards Croma. He who slew my son is near, with all 
his pointed spears. 

If a concise or nervous style be a beauty, tautology 
must be a blemish : and yet writers, fettered by verse, 
are not sufficiently careful to avoid this slovenly prac- 
tice ; they may be pitied, but they cannot be justified. 
Take for a specimen the following instances, from the 
best poet, for versification at least, that England has 
to boast of. 

High on his helm celestial lightnings play, 
His beamy shield emits a living ray, 
Th' unwearied blaze incessant streams supplies, 
Like the red star that fires the autumnal skies. 

Iliad v. 5. 

Strength and omnipotence invest thy throne. 

Ibid. viii. 576. 



^38 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

So silent fountains, from a rock's tall head, 
In sable streams soft trickling waters shed. 

Ibid. ix. 19. 

His clanging armor rung. Ibid. xii. 94. 

Fear on their cheek, and horror in their eye. 

Ibid. xv. 4. 

The blaze of armor flash'd against the day. 

Ibid. xvii. 736. 

As when the piercing blasts of Boreas blow. 

Ibid. xix. 380. 

And like the moon, the broad refulgent shield 
Blaz'd with long rays, and gleam'd athwart the field. 

Ibid. xix. 402. 

No — could our swiftness o'er the winds prevail, 

Or beat the pinions of the western gale, 

All were in vain. Ibid. xix. 460. 

The humid sweat from ev'ry pore descends. 

Ibid, xxiii. 829. 

Redundant epithets, such as humid in the last cita- 
tion, are hy Quintilian disallowed to orators; but in- 
dulged to poets, because his favorite poets, in a few 
instances, are reduced to such epithets for the sake ot 
versification. 

As an apology for such careless expressions, it may 
well suffice, that Pope, in submitting to be a translator, 
acts below his genius. In a translation, it is hard to 
require the same spirit of accuracy, that is cheerfully 
bestowed on an original work. 

I close this chapter with a curious inquiry. An ob- 
ject, however ugly to the sight, is far from being so 
when represented by colors or by words. What is the 
cause of this difference ? With respect to painting, the 
cause is obvious : a good picture, whatever the subject 
be, is agreeable by the pleasure w r e take in imitation ; 
and this pleasure, overbalancing the disagreeableness 
of the subject, makes the picture upon the whole 
agreeable. With respect to the description of an ugly 
object, the cause follows. To connect individuals in 
the social state, no particular contributes more than 
language, by the power it possesses of an expeditious 



NARRATIOX AND DESCRIPTION. 239 

communication of thought, and a lively representation 
of transactions. But nature hath not been satisfied to 
recommend language by its utility merely ; independ- 
ent of utility, it is made susceptible of many beauties, 
which are directly felt, without any intervening reflec- 
tion. And this unfolds the mystery ; for the pleasure 
of language is so great, as in a lively description to 
overbalance the disagreeableness of the image raised 
by it. This, however, is no encouragement to choose 
a disagreeable subject; for the pleasure is incompara- 
bly greater, where the subject and the description are 
both of them agreeable. 

The following description is upon the whole agree- 
able, though the subject described is in itself dismal : 

Nine times the space that measures day and night 
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
Lay vanquish'd, rolling in the fiery gulf, 
Confounded though immortal ! but his doom 
Reserv'd him to more wrath ; for now the thought 
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 
Torments him ; round he throws his baleful eyes 
That witness'd huge affliction and dismay, 
Mix'd with obdurate pride and stedfast hate : 
At once as far as angels' ken he views 
The dismal situation waste and wild : 
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round 
As one great furnace flam'd ; yet from those flames 
No light, but rather darkness visible 
Serv'd only to discover sights of woe, 
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes 
That comes to all ; but torture without end 
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 
With ever-burning sulphur unconsum'd ! 
Such place eternal Justice hath prepaid 
For those rebellious. 

Paradise Lost. — Book I. 1. 50. 

An unmanly depression of spirits in time of danger,. 
is not an agreeable sight ; and yet a fine description 
or representation of it will be relished : 

K. Richard. What must the king do now? must he submit? 
The king shall do it: must he be depos'd? 
The king shall be contented : must he lose 
The name of king? i' God's name, let it go : 
I'll give my jewels for a string of beads ; 



240 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

My gorgeous palace for a hermitage ; 
My gay apparel for an almsman's gown ; 
My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood ; 
My sceptre Tor a palmer's walking-staff; 
My subjects for a pair of carved saints ; 
And my large kingdom for a little grave ; 

A little, little grave ; an obscure grave. 

Or, I'll be buried in the king's highway; 
Some way of common tread, where subjects' feet 
May hourly trample on their sovereign's head ; 
For on my heart they tread now, whilst I live ; 
And, buried once, why not upon my head ? 

Richard II. — Act III. Sc. 6. 

Objects that strike terror in a spectator have in 
poetry and painting a fine effect. The picture, by 
raising a slight emotion of terror, agitates the mind ; 
and in that condition every beauty makes a deep im- 
pression. May not contrast heighten the pleasure, by 
opposing our present security to the danger of en- 
countering the object represented? 

The other shape, 
If shape it might be call'd, that shape had none 
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb ; 
Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd, 
For each seem'd either ; black it stood as night, 
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell, 
And shook a dreadful dart. 

Paradise Lost. — Book II. 1. 666. 

Now storming fury rose, 
And clamor such as heard in heaven till now 
Was never : arms on armor clashing bray'd 
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels 
Of brazen chariots rag'd ; dire was the noise 
Of conflict : overhead the dismal hiss 
Of fiery darts in flaming volleys flew, 
And flying vaulted either host with fire. 
So under fiery cope together rush'd 
Both battles main, with ruinous assault 
And inextinguishable rage : all heaven 
Resounded ; and had earth been then, all earth 
Had to her centre shook. 

Paradise Lost. — Book VI. 1. 207. 

Ghost But that I am forbid 

To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, 



NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION. 241 

Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, 

Thy knotty and combined locks to part, 

Ana 1 each particular hair to stand on end, 

Like quills upon the fretful porcupine: 

But this eternal blazon must not be 

To ears of flesh and blood. Hamlet. — Act I. Sc. 8. 

Gratiano. Poor Desdemona ! I 'm glad thy father 's dead : 
Thy match was mortal to him ; and pure grief 
Shore bis old thread in twain. Did he lire now, 
This sight would make him do a desperate turn ; 
Yea, curse his better angel from his side, 
And fall to reprobation. Othello. — Act V. Sc. 8. 

Objects of horror must be excepted from the fore- 
going theory; for no description, however lively, is 
sufficient to overbalance the disgust raised even by 
the idea of such objects. Every thing horrible ought 
therefore to be avoided in a description. Nor is this a 
severe law : the poet will avoid such scenes for his 
own sake, as well as for that of his reader; and to 
vary his descriptions, nature affords plenty of objects 
that disgust us in some degree without raising horror. 

I am obliged, therefore, to condemn the picture of 
Sin in the second book of Paradise Lost, though a mas- 
terly performance : the original would be a horrid 
spectacle ; and the horror is not much softened in the 
copy. 

Iago's character, in the tragedy of Othello, is insuf- 
ferably monstrous and satanical: not even Shakspeare's 
masterly hand can make the picture agreeable. 

REVIEW. 

What is the first rule in the composition of history? — what are 
the reasons for it ? 
What is the second rule ? — what are the reasons for it ? 
What is the effect of straining to make a figure at first ? 
How should the first sentences of a work be ? 
What is the third rule ? 
What is the fourth rule ? 
In what does the force of language consist ? 
What should the narrative in an epic poem resemble? 
Give examples. 

What is the criticism on Voltaire's Henriade ? 
How should circumstances be disposed of? 
What is the effect of a well-chosen circumstance ? 

V 



242 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Give examples. 

What writers excel in drawing characters ? 

Give examples from Shakspeare, Congreve, and Ossian. 

Give examples of contradictions and absurdities, which some 
writers fall into ? 

Should common and well-known reasons be expressed ? 

What sort of style is required by an elevated subject? — a familiar 
subject ? — a serious subject ? — a description ? 

What example is given of a high subject expressed in low 
words ? — of expression raised above the subject? 

What is the common error of inferior writers ? 

What is its effect ? 

Give an example. 

What is the remark made on these lines ? 

How is slow action imitated ? — how is labor ? 

What is to be regarded in dialogue-writing ? 

How does an incident make the strongest impression ? 

How do writers of genuine taste take advantage of this fact ? 

Give examples. 

When are repetitions allowable ? 

Give examples. 

How are Homer's repetitions justified ? 

What is observed of a concise style ? 

What writers excel in it? 

Give examples from Ossian. 

What is observed of tautology ? 

What writer is sometimes guilty of it ? 

Why is the picture of an ugly object agreeable? 

Why may the description of a disagreeable object be agreeable? 

Give examples. 

How may an object that strikes terror in the spectator, have a 
fine effect in poetry and painting ? 

Are objects of horror proper for description ? 

Why not? 



CHAPTER XXII. 

Epic and Dramatic Compositions. 

Tragedy differs not from epic in substance : in both 
the same ends are pursued, namely, instruction and 
amusement ; and in both the same mean is employed, 
namely, imitation of human actions. They differ only 
in the manner of imitating ; epic poetry employs nar- 
ration ; tragedy represents its facts as passing in our 



EPIG AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 243 

sight ; in the former, the poet introduces himself as an 
historian; in the latter, he presents his actors, and 
never himself.* 

This difference, regarding form only, may he thought 
slight : but the effects it occasions, are by no means so; 
for what we see makes a deeper impression than what 
we learn from others. A narrative poem is a story 
told by another : facts and incidents passing upon the 
stage, come under our own observation ; and are be- 
sides much enlivened by action and gesture, expressive 
of many sentiments beyond the reach of words. 

A dramatic composition has another property inde- 
pendent altogether of action ; which is, that it makes 
a deeper impression than narration : in the former, 
persons express their own sentiments; in the latter, 
sentiments are related at second-hand. For that reason 
Aristotle, the father of critics, lays it down as a rule, 
That in an epic poem the author ought to take every 
opportunity of introducing his actors, and of confining 
the narrative part within the narrowest bounds.f Ho- 

* The dialogue in a dramatic composition distinguishes it so 
clearly from other compositions, that no writer has thought it ne- 
cessary to search for any other distinguishing mark. But much 
useless labor has been bestowed, to distinguish an epic poem by 
some peculiar mark. Bossu defines it to be, " A composition in 
verse, intended to form the manners by instructions disguised un- 
der the allegories of an important action;" which excludes every 
epic poem founded upon real facts, and perhaps includes several 
of iEsop's fables. Voltaire reckons verse so essential, as for that 
single reason to exclude the adventures of Telemachus. See his 
Essay upon Epic Poetry. Others, affected with substance more 
than with form, hesitate not to pronounce that poem to be epic. 
It is not a little diverting to see so many profound critics hunting 
for what is not; they take for granted, without the least founda- 
tion, that there must be some precise criterion to distinguish epic 
poetry from every other species of writing. Literary composi- 
tions run into each other precisely like colors : in their strong tints 
they are easily distinguished ; but are susceptible of so much va- 
riety, and of so many different forms, that we never can say where 
one species ends and another begins. As to the general taste, 
there is little reason to doubt, that a work where heroic actions 
are related in an elevated style, will, without further requisite, be 
deemed an epic poem. 

t Poet. cap. 25. sect. 6 



244 ELEMENTS OP- CRITICISM. 

mer understood perfectly the advantage of this method; 
and his two poems abound in dialogue. Lucan runs 
to the opposite expreme, even so far as to stuff his 
Pharsalia with cold and languid reflections ; the merit 
of which he assumes to himself, and deigns not to share 
"with his actors. Nothing can he more injudiciously 
timed than a chain of such reflections, which suspend 
the battle of Pharsalia after the leaders had made 
their speeches, and the two armies are ready to en- 
gage.* 

Aristotle, regarding the fable only, divides tragedy 
into simple and complex : but it is of greater moment, 
with respect to dramatic as well as epic poetry, to 
found a distinction upon the different ends attained by 
such compositions. A poem, whether dramatic or epic, 
that has nothing in view but to move the passions and 
to exhibit pictures of virtue and vice, may be distin- 
guished by the name of pathetic: but where a story is 
purposely contrived to illustrate some moral truth, by 
showing that disorderly passions naturally lead to ex- 
ternal misfortunes, such compositions may be denomi- 
nated raora/.f Beside making a deeper impression than 
can be done by cool reasoning, a moral poem does not 
fall short of reasoning in affording conviction: the 
natural connexion of vice with misery, and of virtue 
with happiness, may be illustrated by stating a fact, 
as well as by urging an argument. Let us assume, for 
example, the following moral truths: that discord among 
the chiefs renders ineffectual all common measures; 
and that the consequences of a slightly-founded quarrel, 



* Lib. 7, from line 385 to line 460. 

f The same distinction is applicable to that sort of fable which 
is said to be the invention of jEsop. A moral, it is true, is by all 
critics considered as essential to such a fable. But nothing is 
more common than to be led blindly by authority ; for, of the nu- 
merous collections I have seen, the fables that clearly inculcate a 
moral make a very small part. In many fables, indeed, proper 
pictures of virtue and vice are exhibited: but the bulk of these 
collections convey no instruction, nor afford any amusement, be- 
yond what a child receives in reading an ordinary story. 



EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 245 

fostered by pride and arrogance, are no less fatal than 
those of the grossest injury : these truths may be in- 
culcated by the quarrel between Agamemnon and 
Achilles, at the siege of Troy. If facts or circum- 
stances be wanting, such as tend to rouse the turbu- 
lent passions, they must be invented; but no accidental 
nor unaccountable event ought to be admitted ; for 
the necessary or probable connexion between vice and 
misery is not learned from any events, but what are 
naturally occasioned by the characters and passions of 
the persons represented, acting in such and such cir- 
cumstances. A real event, of which we see not the 
cause, may afford a lesson, upon the presumption that 
what hath happened may happen again : but this can- 
not be inferred from a story that is known to be a fic- 
tion. 

Many are the good effects of such compositions. A 
pathetic composition, whether epic or dramatic, tends 
to a habit of virtue, by exciting us to do what is right, 
and restraining us from what is wrong. Its frequent 
pictures of human woes produce, besides, two effects 
extremely salutary : they improve our sympathy, and 
fortify us to bear our own misfortunes. A moral com- 
position obviously produces the same good effects, be- 
cause, by being moral, it ceaseth not to be pathetic . 
it enjoys besides an excellence peculiar to itself; for it 
not only improves the heart, as above mentioned, but 
instructs the head by the moral it contains. I cannot 
imugine any entertainment more suited to a rational 
being, than a work thus happily illustrating some moral 
truth ; w T here a number of persons of different charac- 
ters are engaged in an important action, some retard- 
ing, others promoting, the great catastrophe; and where 
there is dignity of style as well as of matter. A work 
of that kind has our sympathy at command; and can 
put in motion the whole train of the social affections : 
our curiosity in some scenes is excited, in others grati- 
fied ; and our delight is consummated at the close, upon 
finding, from the characters and situations exhibited 

V2 



246 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

at the commencement, that every incident down to the! 
final catastrophe is natural, and that the whole in con- 
junction makes a regular chain of causes and effects. 

Considering that an epic and a dramatic poem are I 
the same in substance, and have the same aim or end, I 
one will readily imagine, that subjects proper for the 
one must be equally proper for the other. But con- 
sidering their difference as to form, there w T ill be found 
reason to correct that conjecture, at least in some de- 
gree. Many subjects may indeed be treated with equal 
advantage in either form; but the subjects are still 
more numerous, for which they are not equally quali- 
fied ; and there are subjects proper for the one, and 
not for the other. To give some slight notion of the 
difference, as there is no room here for enlarging upon 
every article, I observe, that dialogue is better quali- 
fied for expressing sentiments, and narrative for dis- 
playing facts. Heroism, magnanimity, undaunted cour- 
age, and other elevated virtues, figure best in action : 
tender passions, and the whole tribe of sympathetic 
affections, figure best in sentiment. It clearly follows, 
that tender passions are more peculiarly the province 
of tragedy, grand and heroic actions of epic poetry.* 

I have no occasion to say more upon the epic, con- 
sidered as peculiarly adapted to certain subjects. But 
as dramatic subjects are more complex, I must take a 
narrower view of them; which I do the more will- 
ingly, in order to clear a point involved in great obscu- 
rity by critics. 

In the chapter of Emotions and Passions, it is occa- 
sionally shown, that the subject best fitted for tragedy 
is where a man has himself been the cause of his mis- 
fortune : hot so as to be deeply guilty, nor altogether 
innocent ; the misfortune must be occasioned by a fault 
incident to human nature, and therefore in some de- 

* In Racine, tender sentiments prevail ; in Corneille, grand and 
heroic manners. Hence clearly the preference of the former be- 
fore the latter, as dramatic poets. Corneille would have figured 
better in an heroic poem. 



fe 






EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 247 

gree venial. Such misfortunes call forth the social 
affections, and warmly interest the spectator. An ac- 
cidental misfortune, if not extremely singular, doth not 
greatly move our pity; the person who suffers, being 
innocent, is freed from the greatest of all torments, 
that anguish of mind which is occasioned by remorse. 
An atrocious criminal, on the other hand, who brings 
misfortunes upon himself, excites little pity, for a dif- 
ferent reason ; his remorse, it is true, aggravates his 
distress, and swells the first emotions of pity; but these 
are immediately blunted by our hatred of him as a 
criminal. Misfortunes that are not innocent, nor highly 
criminal, partake the advantages of each extreme : 
they are attended with remorse to embitter the dis- 
tress, which raises our pity to a height ; and the slight 
indignation we have at a venial fault, detracts not sen- 
sibly from our pity. The happiest of all subjects, ac- 
cordingly, for raising pity, is where a man of integrity 
falls into a great misfortune by doing an action that is 
innocent, but which, by some singular means, is con- 
ceived by him to be criminal : his remorse aggravates 
his distress ; and our compassion, unrestrained by in- 
dignation, knows no bounds. Pity comes thus to be the 
ruling passion of a pathetic tragedy : and, by proper 
representation, may be raised to a height scarce ex- 
ceeded by any thing felt in real life. A moral tragedy 
takes in a larger field ; as it not only exercises our pity, 
but raises another passion, which, though selfish, de- 
serves to be cherished equally with the social affection, 
The passion I have in view is fear or terror ; for when 
a misfortune is the natural consequence of some wrong 
bias in the temper, every spectator who is conscious 
of such a bias in himself, takes the alarm, and dreads 
his falling into the same misfortune ; and by the emo- 
tion of fear or terror, frequently reiterated in a va- 
riety of moral tragedies, the spectators are put upon 
their guard against the disorders of passion. 

The commentators upon Aristotle, and other critics, 
have been much gravelled about the account given 



248 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

of tragedy by that author ; " That, by means of pity 
and terror, it refines or purifies in us all sorts of pas- 
sion." But no one who has a clear conception of the 
end and effects of a good tragedy, can have any diffi- 
culty about Aristotle's meaning : our pity is engaged 
for the persons represented ; and our terror is upon 
our own account. Pity indeed is here made to stand 
for all the sympathetic emotions, because of these it 
is the capital. There can be no doubt that our sym- 
pathetic emotions are refined or improved by daily 
exercise ; and in what manner our other passions are 
refined by terror, I have just now said. One thing is 
certain, that no other meaning can justly be given to 
the foregoing doctrine, than that now mentioned ; and 
that it was really Aristotle's meaning, appears from 
his thirteenth chapter, where he delivers several pro- 
positions conformable to the doctrine, as here explained. 
These, at the same time, I take the liberty to mention; 
because, as far as authority can go, they confirm the 
foregoing reasoning about subjects proper for tragedy. 
The first proposition is, That it being the province of 
tragedy to excite pity and terror, an innocent person 
falling into adversity ought never to be the subject. 
This proposition is a necessary consequence of his doc- 
trine as explained : a subject of that nature may in- 
deed excite pity and terror; but in the former in an 
inferior degree, and in the latter in no degree for moral 
instruction. The second proposition is, That the his- 
tory of a wicked person, in a change from misery to 
happiness, ought not to be represented. It excites 
neither terror nor compassion, nor is agreeable in any 
respect. The third is, That the misfortunes of a 
wicked person ought not to be represented. Such 
representation may be agreeable in some measure, 
upon a principle of justice ; but it will not move our 
pity, nor any degree of terror, except in those of the 
same vicious disposition with the person represented. 
The last proposition is, That the only character fit for 
representation lies in the middle, neither eminently 



EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 249 

good nor eminently bad : where the misfortune is not 
the effect of deliberate vice, but of some involuntary 
fault, as our author expresses it.^ The only objection 
I find to Aristotle's account of tragedy, is, that he con- 
fines it within too narrow bounds, by refusing admit- 
tance to the pathetic kind : for if terror be essential 
to tragedy, no representation deserves that name but 
the moral kind, where the misfortunes exhibited are 
caused by a wrong balance of mind, or some disorder 
in the internal constitution ; such misfortunes always 
suggest moral instruction; and by such misfortunes 
only can terror be excited for our improvement. 

Thus Aristotle's four propositions above mentioned 
relate solely to tragedies of the moral kind. Those 
of the pathetic kind are not confined within so narrow 
limits: subjects fitted for the theatre are not in such 
plenty as to make us reject innocent misfortunes, 
which rouse our sympathy, though they inculcate no 
moral. With respect indeed to subjects of that kind, 
it may be doubted whether the conclusion ought not 
always to be fortunate. Where a person of integrity 
is represented as suffering to the end under misfortunes 
purely accidental, we depart discontented, and with 
some obscure sense of injustice : for seldom is man so 
submissive to Providence, as not to revolt against the 
tyranny and vexations of blind chance : he will be 
tempted to say, This ought not to be. Chance, giving 
an impression of anarchy and misrule, produces always 
a damp upon the mind. I give for an example the 
Romeo and Juliet of Shakspeare, where the fatal ca- 
tastrophe is occasioned by Friar Laurence's coming to 
the monument a minute too late ; we are vexed at the 
unlucky chance, and go away dissatisfied. Such im- 
pressions, which ought not to be cherished, are a suffi- 
cient reason for excluding stories of that kind from the 
theatre. The misfortunes of a virtuous person, arising 

* If any one can be amused with a grave discourse which 
.promised much and performs nothing, I refer to Brumoy, in his 
Theatre Grec, Preliminary Discourse on the Origin of Tragedy. 



250 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

from necessary causes, or from a chain of unavoidable 
circumstances, are considered in a different light. A 
regular chain of causes and effects directed by the 
general laws of nature, never fails to suggest the hand 
of Providence; to which we submit without resent- 
ment, being conscious that submission is our duty. 
For that reason, we are not disgusted with the dis- 
tresses of Voltaire's Mariamne, though redoubled on 
her till her death, without the least fault or failing on 
her part ; her misfortunes are owing to a cause ex- 
tremely natural, and not unfrequent, the jealousy of 
a barbarous husband. The fate of Desdemona, in the 
Moor of Venice, affects us in the same manner. We 
are not so easily reconciled to the fate of Cordelia in 
King Lear ; the causes of her misfortune are by no 
means so evident, as to exclude the gloomy notion of 
chance. In short, a perfect character suffering under 
misfortunes is qualified for being the subject of a pa- 
thetic tragedy, provided chance be excluded. Nor is 
a perfect character altogether inconsistent with a 
moral tragedy ; it may successfully be introduced in 
an under part, if the chief place be occupied by an 
imperfect character, from which a moral can be 
drawn. This is the case of Desdemona and Mariamne 

i'ust mentioned ; and it is the case of Monimia and 
lelvidera, in Otway's two tragedies, The Orphan, and 
Venice Preserved. 

I had an early opportunity to unfold a curious doc- 
trine, That fable operates on our passions, by repre- 
senting its events as passing in our sight, and by de- 
luding us into a conviction of reality. Hence, in epic 
and dramatic compositions, every circumstance ought 
to be employed that may promote the delusion ; such 
as the borrowing from history some noted event, with 
the addition of circumstances that may answer the 
author's purpose : the principal facts are known to be 
true; and we are disposed to extend our belief to 
every circumstance. But in choosing a subject that 
makes a figure in history, greater precaution is neces- 



EPIC AffD DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 251 

sary than where the whole is a fiction. In the latter 
case, there is full scope for invention : the author is 
under no restraint other than that the characters and 
incidents be just copies of nature. But where the 
story is founded on truth, no circumstances must be 
added, but such as connect naturally with what are 
known to be true ; history may be supplied, but must 
not be contradicted: farther, the subject chosen must 
be distant in time, or at least in place : for the fami- 
liarity of recent persons and events ought to be avoided. 
Familiarity ought more especially to be avoided in an 
epic poem, the peculiar character of which is dignity 
and elevation : modern manners make no figure in 
such a poem.* 

After Voltaire, no writer, it is probable, will think 
of rearing an epic poem upon a recent event in the 
history of his own country. But an event of that 
kind is perhaps not altogether unqualified for tragedy: 
it was admitted in Greece ; and Shakspeare has em- 
ployed it successfully in several of his pieces. One ad- 
vantage it possesses above fiction, that of more readily 
engaging our belief, which tends above any other cir- 
cumstance to raise our sympathy. The scene of comedy 
is generally laid at home; familiarity is no objection; 
and we are peculiarly sensible of the ridicule of our 
own manners. 

After a proper subject is chosen, the dividing it into 
parts requires some art. The conclusion of a book in 
an epic poem, or of an act in a play, cannot be alto- 
gether arbitrary ; nor be intended for so slight a pur- 
pose as to make the parts of equal length. The sup- 
posed pause at the end of every book, and the real 
pause at the end of every act, ought always to coin- 

* I would not from this observation be thought to undervalue 
modern manners. The roughness and impetuosity of ancient 
manners may be better fitted for an epic poem, without being bet- 
ter fitted for society. But with regard to that circumstance, it is 
the familiarity of modern manners that unqualifies them for a 
lofty subject. The dignity of our present manners will be better 
understood in future ages, when they are no longer familiar. 



252 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

cide with some pause in the action. In this respect, 
a dramatic or epic poem ought to resemble a sentence 
or period in language, divided into members that are 
distinguished from each other by proper pauses ; or it 
ought to resemble a piece of music, having a full close 
at the end, preceded by imperfect closes that con- 
tribute to the melody. Every act in a dramatic poem 
ought therefore to close with some incident that makes 
a pause in the action ; for otherwise there can be no 
pretext for interrupting the representation : it would 
be absurd to break off in the very heat of action ; 
against which every one would exclaim : the absurdity 
still remains where the action relents, if it be not ac- 
tually suspended for some time. This rule is also ap- 
plicable to an epic poem ; though in it a deviation from 
the rule is less remarkable; because it is in the reader's 
power to hide the absurdity, by proceeding instantly 
to another book. The first book of Paradise Lost ends 
without any close, perfect or imperfect : it breaks off 
abruptly, where Satan, seated on his throne, is pre- 
pared to harangue the convocated host of the fallen 
angels; and the second book begins with the speech. 
Milton seems to have copied the JEneid, of which the 
two first books are divided much in the same manner. 
Neither is there any proper pause at the end of the 
fifth book of the JEneid. There is no proper pause at 
the end of the seventh book of Paradise Lost, nor at 
the end of the eleventh. In the Iliad little attention 
is given to this rule. 

This branch of the subject shall be closed w T ith a 
general rule, That action being the fundamental part 
of every composition, whether epic or dramatic, the 
sentiments and tone of language ought to be subser- 
vient to the action, so as to appear natural and proper 
for the occasion. The application of this rule to our 
modern plays, would reduce the bulk of them to a 
skeleton. 

After carrying on together epic and dramatic com- 
positions, I shall mention circumstances peculiar to 



EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 253 

each ; beginning with the epic kind. In a theatrical 
entertainment, which employs both the eye and the 
ear, it would be a gross absurdity to introduce upon 
the stage superior beings in a visible shape. There is 
no place for such objection in an epic poem; and 
Boileau,* with many other critics, declares strongly 
for that sort of machinery in an epic poem. But 
waiving authority, which is apt to impose upon the 
judgment, let us draw what light we can from reason. 
I begin with a preliminary remark, That this matter 
is but indistinctly handled by critics; the poetical 
privilege of animating insensible objects for enlivening 
a description, is very different from what is termed 
machinery, where deities, angels, devils, or other super- 
natural powers, are introduced as real personages, 
mixing in the action, and contributing to the catastro- 
phe ; and yet these are constantly jumbled together in 
the reasoning. The former is founded on a natural 
principle ; but, can the latter claim the same authori- 
ty ? far from it ; nothing is more unnatural. Its effects, 
at the same time, are deplorable. First, It gives an 
air of fiction to the whole, and prevents that impres- 
sion of reality which is requisite to interest our affec- 
tions, and to move our passions. This of itself is suf- 
ficient to explode machinery, whatever entertainment 
it may afford to readers of a fantastic taste or irregu- 
lar imagination. And, next, were it possible, by dis- 
guising the fiction, to delude us into a notion of reality, 
which I think can hardly be, an insuperable objection 
would still remain, that the aim or end of an epic 
poem can never be attained in any perfection, where 
machinery is introduced ; for an evident reason, that 
virtuous emotions cannot be raised successfully but by 
the actions of those who are endued with passions and 
affections like our own, that is, by human actions; and 
as for moral instruction, it is clear, that none can be 
drawn from beings who act not upon the same princi- 

* Third part of his Art of Poetry. 
W 



254 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

pies with us. A fable in iEsop's manner is no objection 
to this reasoning: his lions, bulls, and goats, are truly 
men in disguise ; they act and feel in every respect as 
human beings ; and the moral we draw is founded on 
that supposition. Homer, it is true, introduces the 
gods into his fable: but the religion of his country 
authorized that liberty; it being an article in the 
Grecian creed, that the gods often interpose visibly and 
bodily in human affairs. I must however observe, that 
Homer's deities do no honor to his poems: fictions that 
transgress the bounds of nature seldom have a good 
effect ; they may inflame the imagination for a mo- 
ment, but will not be relished by any person of a cor- 
rect taste. They may be of some use to the lower 
rank of writers ; but an author of genius has much 
finer materials, of nature's production, for elevating 
his subject and making it interesting. 

One would be apt to think that Boileau, declaring 
for the heathen deities as above, intended them only 
for embellishing the diction; but unluckily he banishes 
angels and devils, who undoubtedly make a figure in 
poetic language equal to the heathen deities. Boileau, 
therefore, by pleading for the latter in opposition to 
the former, certainly meapt, if he had any distinct 
meaning, that the heathen deities may be introduced 
as actors. And, in fact, he himself is guilty of that 
glaring absurdity, where it is not so pardonable as in 
an epic poem. In his ode upon the taking of Namur, 
he demands, with a most serious countenance, whether 
the walls were built by Apollo or Neptune ? and in 
relating the passage of the Rhine, anno 1672, he de- 
scribes the god of that river as fighting with all his 
might to oppose the French monarch ; which is con- 
founding fiction with reality at a strange rate. The 
French writers in general run into this error : wonder- 
ful the effect of custom, to hide from them how ridicu- 
lous such fictions are ! 

That this is a capital error in the Gierusalemme Lib- 
erata, Tasso's greatest admirers must acknowledge : a 



EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 255 

situation can never be intricate, nor the reader ever in 
pain about the catastrophe, as long as there is an an- 
gel, devil, or magician, to lend a helping hand. Vol- 
taire, in his essay upon epic poetry, talking of the 
Pharsalia, observes judiciously, " That the proximity 
of time, the notoriety of events, the character of the 
age, enlightened and political, joined with the solidity of 
Lucan's subject, deprived him of poetical fiction." Is 
it not amazing, that a critic, who reasons so justly with 
respect to others, can be so blind with respect to him- 
self ? Voltaire, not satisfied to enrich his language with 
images drawn from invisible and superior beings, in- 
troduces them into the action : in the sixth canto ot 
the Henriade, St. Louis appears in person, and terrifies 
the soldiers ; in the seventh canto, St. Louis sends the 
God of Sleep to Henry ; and, in the tenth, the demons 
of Discord, Fanaticism, War, &c. assist Aumale in a 
single combat with Turenne, and are driven away by 
a good. angel brandishing the sword of God. To blend 
such fictitious personages in the same action with mor- 
tals, makes a bad figure at any rate; and is intolerable 
in a history so recent as that of Henry IV. But per- 
fection is not the lot of man.* 

I have tried serious reasonings upon this subject ; 
but ridicule, I suppose, will be found a more successful 
weapon, which Addison has applied in an elegant man- 
ner : " Whereas, the time of a general peace is, in all 

* When I commenced author, my aim was to amuse, and perhaps 
to instruct, but never to give pain. I accordingly avoided every 
living author, till the Henriade occurred to me as the best instance 
I could find for illustrating the doctrine in the text ; and I yielded 
to the temptation, judging that my slight criticisms would never 
reach M. de Voltaire. They have however reached him ; and 
have, as I am informed, stirred up some resentment. I am afflicted 
at this information ; for what title have I to wound the mind more 
than the body ? It would besides show ingratitude to a celebrated 
writer, who is highly entertaining, and who has bestowed on me 
many a delicious morsel My only excuse for giving offence is, 
that it was undesigned : for, to plead that the censure is just, is 
no excuse. As the offence was public, I take this opportunity to 
make the apology equally so. I hope it will be satisfactory : per- 
haps not. — I owe it, however, to my own character. 



256 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

appearances, drawing near ; being informed that there 
are several ingenious persons who intend to show their 
talents on so happy an occasion, and being willing, as 
much as in me lies, to prevent that effusion of nonsense 
which we have good cause to apprehend, I do hereby 
strictly require every person who shall write on this 
subject, to remember that he is a Christian, and not to 
sacrifice his catechism to his poetry. In order to it, I 
do expect of him, in the first place, to make his own 
poem, without depending upon Phoebus for any part 
of it, or calling out for aid upon any of the muses by 
name. I do likewise positively forbid the sending of 
Mercury with any particular message, or dispatch, 
relating to the peace ; and shall by no means suffer 
Minerva to take upon her the shape of any plenipo- 
tentiary concerned in this great work. I do further 
declare, that I shall not allow the destinies to have had 
a hand in the deaths of the several thousands who 
have been slain in the late war; being of opinion, that 
all such deaths may be well accounted for by the 
Christian system of powder and ball. I do therefore 
strictly forbid the fates to cut the thread of man's life 
upon any pretence whatsoever, unless it be for the 
sake of the rhyme. And whereas, I have good reason 
to fear, that Neptune will have a great deal of busi- 
ness on his hands, in several poems which we may now 
suppose are upon the anvil, I do also prohibit his ap- 
pearance, unless it be done in metaphor, simile, or any 
very short allusion : and that even here he may not 
be permitted to enter, but with great caution and cir- 
cumspection. I desire that the same rule may be ex- 
tended to his whole fraternity of heathen gods ; it be- 
ing my design to condemn every poem to the flames in 
which Jupiter thunders, or exercises any other act of 
authority which does not belong to him. In short, I 
expect that no Pagan agent shall be introduced, or any 
fact related, which a man cannot give credit to with 
a good conscience. Provided always, that nothing 
herein contained shall extend, or be construed to ex- 



EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 257 

tend, to several of the female poets in this nation, who 
shall still be left in full possession of their gods and 
goddesses, in the same manner as if this paper had 
never been written."* 

The marvellous is indeed so much promoted by ma- 
chinery, that it is not wonderful to find it embraced by 
the plurality of writers, and, perhaps, of readers. If 
indulged at all, it is generally indulged to excess. Ho- 
mer introduces his deities with no greater ceremony 
than as mortals ; and Virgil has still less moderation : 
a pilot spent with watching, cannot fall asleep and drop 
into the sea by natural means. The ridiculous in such 
fictions must appear even through the thickest veil of 
gravity and solemnity. 

Angels and devils serve equally with heathen deities 
as materials for figurative language ; perhaps better 
among Christians, because we believe in them, and 
not in heathen deities. But every one is sensible, as 
well as Boileau, that the invisible powers in our creed 
make a much worse figure as actors in a modern poem, 
than the invisible powers in the heathen creed did in 
ancient poems ; the cause of which is not far to seek. 
The heathen deities, in the opinion of their votaries, 
were beings elevated one step only above mankind, 
subject to the same passions, and directed by the same 
motives; therefore not altogether improper to mix with 
men in an important action. In our creed, superior 
beings are placed at such a mighty distance from us, 
and are of a nature so different, that with no pro- 
priety can we appear with them upon the same stage : 
man, a creature much inferior, loses all dignity in the 
comparison. 

There can be no doubt that an historical poem ad- 
mits the embellishment of allegory, as well as of meta- 
phor, simile, or other figure. Moral truth, in particular, 
is finely illustrated in the allegorical manner: it amuses 
the fancy to find abstract terms, by a sort of magic, 

* Spectator, No. 523. 
W2 



258 ELEMENTS OP CRITICISM. 

metamorphosed into active beings : and it is highly 
pleasing to discover a general proposition in a pictured 
event. But allegorical beings should be confined with- 
in their own sphere, and never be admitted to mix in 
the principal action, nor to co-operate in retarding or 
advancing the catastrophe. This would have a still 
worse effect than invisible powers ; and I am ready to 
assign the reason. The impression of real existence, 
essential to an epic poem, is inconsistent with that fig- 
urative existence which is essential to an allegory; 
and, therefore, no means can more effectually prevent 
the impression of reality, than to introduce allegorical 
co-operating with those whom we conceive to be really 
existing. The love-episode in the Henriade* insuf- 
ferable by the discordant mixture of allegory with 
real life, sis copied from that of Rinaldo and Armida, in 
the Gierusalemme Liberata, which hath no merit to en- 
title it to be copied. An allegorical object, such as 
Fame in the JEneid, and the Temple of Love in the 
Henriade, may find place in a description ; but to in- 
troduce Discord as a real personage, imploring the as- 
sistance of Love, as another real personage, to ener- 
vate the courage of the hero, is making these figurative 
beings act beyond their sphere, and creating a strange 

{'umble of truth and fiction. The allegory of Sin and 
)eath in the Paradise Lost, is, I presume, not generally 
relished, though it is not entirely of the same nature 
with what I have been condemning : in a work com- 
prehending the achievements of superior beings, there 
is more room for fancy than where it is confined to hu- 
man actions. 

What is the true notion of an episode ? or how is it 
to be distinguished from the principal action ? Every 
incident that promotes or retards the catastrophe, must 
be part of the principal action. This clears the nature 
of an episode ; which may be defined, " An incident 
connected with the principal action, but contributing 

* Canto 9. 



EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 259 

neither to advance nor to retard it." The descent of 
iEneas into hell doth not advance nor retard the catas- 
trophe, and therefore is an episode. The story of Nisus 
and Euryalus, producing an alteration in the affairs of 
the contending parties, is a part of the principal ac- 
tion. The family-scene in the sixth book of the Iliad 
is of the same nature ; for by Hector's retiring from 
the field of battle to visit his wife, the Grecians had 
opportunity to breathe, and even to turn upon the 
Trojans. The unavoidable effect of an episode, ac- 
cording to this definition, must be, to break the unity 
of action; and therefore it ought never to be indulged, 
unless to unbend the mind after the fatigue of a long 
narration. An episode, when such is its purpose, re- 
quires the following conditions : it ought to be well con- 
nected with the principal action : it ought to be lively 
and interesting : it ought to be short : and a time ought 
to be chosen when the principal action relents.* 

In the following beautiful episode, which closes the 
second book of Fingal, all these conditions are united: 

Comal was the son of Albion ; the chief of a hundred hills. His 
deer drank of a thousand streams ; and a thousand rocks replied 
to the voice of his dogs. His face was the mildness of youth ; but 
his hand the death of heroes. One was his love, and fair was she ! 
the daughter of mighty Conloch. She appeared like a sunbeam 
among women, and her hair was like the wing of the raven. Her 
soul was fixed on Comal, and she was his companion in the chase. 
Often met their eyes of love, and happy were their words in se- 
cret. But Gormal loved the maid, the chief of gloomy Ardven. 
He watched her lone steps on the heath, the foe of unhappy Comal. 

One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had concealed their 
friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch met in the cave of 
Ronan. It was the wonted haunt of Comal/ Its sides were hung 
with his arms ; a hundred shields of thongs were there, a hundred 
helms of sounding steel. Rest here, said he, my love Galvina, thou 
light of the cave of Ronan : a deer appears on Mora's brow ; 1 go, 
but soon will return. I fear, said she, dark Gormal my foe : I will 
rest here ; but soon return, my love. 

* Homer's description of the shield of Achilles is properly in- 
troduced at a time when the action relents, and the reader can 
bear an interruption. But the author of Telemachus describes 
the shield of that young hero in the heat of battle ; a very im- 
proper time for an interruption* 



260 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

He went to the deer of Mora. The daughter of Conloch, to try 
his love, clothed her white side with his armor, and strode from 
the cave of Ronan. Thinking her his foe, his heart beat high, and 
his color changed. He drew the bow : the arrow flew : Galvina 
fell in blood. He ran to the cave with hasty steps, and called the 
daughter of Conloch. Where art thou, my love? but no answer. 
— He marked, at length, her heaving heart beating against the 
mortal arrow. O Conloch's daughter, is it thou ? he sunk upon 
her breast. 

The hunters found the hapless pair. Many and silent were his 
steps round the dark dwelling of his love. The fleet of the ocean 
came; he fought, and the strangers fell: he searched for death 
over the field ; but who could kill the mighty Comal ? Throwing 
away his shield, an arrow found his manly breast. He sleeps with 
his Galvina : their green tombs are seen by the mariner, when he 
bounds on the waves of the north. 

Next, upon the peculiarities of a dramatic poem. 
And the first I shall mention is a double plot ; one of 
which must resemble an episode in an epic poem'; for 
it would distract the spectator, instead of entertaining 
him, if he were forced to attend, at the same time, to 
two capital plots equally interesting. And even sup- 
posing it an under-plot like an episode, it seldom hath 
a good effect in tragedy, of which simplicity is a chief 
property ; for an interesting subject that engages our 
affections, occupies our whole attention, and leaves no 
room for any separate concern. Variety is more tole- 
rable in comedy, which pretends only to amuse, with- 
out totally occupying the mind. But even there, to 
make a double plot agreeable, is no slight effort of art: 
the under-plot ought not to vary greatly in its totie 
from the principal; for discordant emotions are un- 
pleasant when jumbled together; which, by the way, 
is an insuperable objection to tragi-comedy. Upon that 
account, the Provoked Husband deserves censure ; all 
the scenes that bring the family of the Wrongheads 
into action, being ludicrous and farcical, are in a very 
different tone from the principal scenes, displaying se- 
vere and bitter expostulations between Lord Townley 
and his lady. The same objection touches not the 
double plot of the Careless Husband ; the different sub- 
jects being sweetly connected, and having only so much 
variety as to resemble shades of colors harmoniously 



EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 261 

mixed. But this is not all. The under-plot ought to 
be connected with that which is principal, so much at 
least as to employ the same persons : the under-plot 
ought to occupy the intervals or pauses of the princi- 
pal action ; and both ought to be concluded together. 
This is the case of the Merry Wives of Windsor. 

Violent action ought never to be represented on the 
stage. While the dialogue goes on, a thousand par- 
ticulars concur to delude us into an impression of re- 
ality ; genuine sentiments, passionate language, and 
persuasive gesture : the spectator, once engaged, is 
willing to be deceived, loses sight of himself, and with- 
out scruple enjoys the spectacle as a reality. From 
this absent state, he is roused by violent action : he 
awakes as from a pleasing dream, and, gathering his 
senses about him, finds all to be a fiction. 

The French critics join with Horace in excluding 
blood from the stage ; but, overlooking the most sub- 
stantial objection, they urge only, that it is barbarous, 
and shocking to a polite audience. The Greeks had 
no notion of such delicacy, or rather effeminacy : wit- 
ness the murder of Clytemnestra by her son Orestes, 
passing behind the scene as represented by Sophocles : 
her voice is heard calling out for mercy, bitter expos- 
tulations on his part, loud shrieks upon her being stab- 
bed, and then a deep silence. I appeal to every per- 
son of feeling, whether this scene be not more horrible 
than if the deed hajl been committed in sight of the 
spectators upon a sudden gust of passion. If Corneille, 
in representing the affair between Horatius and his 
sister, upon which murder ensues behind the scene, 
had no other view but to remove from the spectators 
a shocking action, he was guilty of a capital mistake; 
for murder in cold blood, which in some measure was 
the case as represented, is more shocking to a polite 
audience, even where the conclusive stab is not seen, 
than the same act performed in their presence by vio- 
lent and unpremeditated passion, as suddenly repented 



262 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

of as committed. I heartily agree with Addison,* that 
no part of this incident ought to have heen represented, 
but reserved for a narrative, with every alleviating 
circumstance in favor of the hero. 

A few words upon the dialogue ; which ought to be 
so conducted as to be a true representation of nature. 
I talk not here of the sentiments, nor of the language ; 
for these come under different heads : I talk of what 
properly belongs to dialogue-writing ; where every sin- 
gle speech, short or long, ought to arise from what is 
said by the former speaker, and furnish matter for 
what comes after, till the end of the scene. In this 
view, all the speeches, from first to last, represent so 
many links of one continued chain. No author, ancient 
or modern, possesses the art of dialogue equal to Shak- 
speare. Dryden, in that particular, may justly be 
placed as his opposite : he frequently introduces three 
or four persons speaking upon the same subject, each 
throwing out his own notions separately, without re- 
garding what is said by the rest : take for an example 
the first scene of Aurenzebe. Sometimes he makes a 
number club in relating an event, not to a stranger, 
supposed ignorant of it, but to one another, for the 
sake merely of speaking: of which notable sort of 
dialogue we have a specimen, in the first scene of the 
first part of the Conquest of Granada. In the second 
part of the same tragedy, scene second, the King, Abe- 
namar, and Zulema, make their separate observations, 
like so many soliloquies, upon the fluctuating temper 
of the mob. A dialogue so uncouth, puts one in mind 
of two shepherds in a pastoral, excited by a prize to 
pronounce verses alternately, each in praise of his own 
mistress. 

This manner of dialogue-writing, beside an unnatu- 
ral air, has another bad effect: it stays the course of 
the action, because it is not productive of any conse- 
quence. In Congreve's comedies, the action is often 

* Spectator, No. 44. 



EPIC AND DRAMATIC COMPOSITIONS. 263 

suspended to make way for a play of wit. But of this 
more particularly in the chapter immediately following. 

No fault is more common among writers, than to pro- 
long a speech, after the impatience of the person to 
whom it is addressed ought to prompt him or her to break 
in. Consider only how the impatient actor is to behave in 
the mean time. To express his impatience in violent 
action, without interrupting, would be unnatural ; and 
yet to dissemble his impatience, by appearing cool 
where he ought to be highly inflamed, would be no 
less so. 

Rhyme being unnatural and disgustful in dialogue, 
is happily banished from our theatre : the only wonder 
is that it ever found admittance, especially among a 
people accustomed to the more manly freedom of 
Shakspeare's dialogue. By banishing rhyme, we have 
gained so much, as never once to dream of any further 
improvement. And yet, however suitable blank verse 
may be to elevated characters and warm passions, it 
must appear improper and affected in the mouths of 
the lower sort. Every scene in tragedy need not be in 
blank verse. Shakspeare, with great judgment, inter- 
mixes prose with verse, and only employs the latter 
where it is required by the importance or dignity of 
the subject. Familiar thoughts and ordinary facts are 
expressed in plain language : to hear a footman de- 
liver a simple message in blank verse, must appear 
ridiculous to every one who is not biassed by custom. 
In short, that variety of characters, and of situations, 
which is the life of a play, requires not only a suitable 
variety in the sentiments, but also in the diction. 

REVIEW. 

In what do tragedy and epic poetry resemble each other? 

How does tragedy differ from epic poetry ? 

What is the difference in their effects ? 

Why does dramatic composition make a deeper impression? 

What rule results from this ? 

Who understood the advantage of this method? 

To what sort of poems is the term pathetic applied ? 



264 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

To what is the term moral applied ? 

Give an example of a poem inculcating moral truth by nar- 
rative. 

What is the effect of a pathetic composition ? 

Are subjects always equally fitted for epic or for dramatic com- 
position ? 

For which is dialogue better qualified ? 

For which is narrative ? 
-*What is peculiarly the province of tragedy ? — what of epic 
poetry ? 

^-4Vhat is the subject best fitted for tragedy ? — why ? 
•dRThy does not an accidental misfortune greatly move our pity ? 
a^Vhat is the happiest of all subjects for raising pity ? 
<*"What passion does a pathetic tragedy raise? — a moral tragedy? 
"""What is the effect of purely accidental misfortunes happening 
to an innocent person ? 

Give an example. 
*What is the effect of misfortunes not accidental ? 

Give an example. 
-How does fable operate on our passions ? 

What rule results hence ? 

What caution is necessary, in handling historical subjects ? 
**JWhat is to be observed in dividing an epic poem or tragedy ? 

What is the rule with respect to action and sentiment? 
^^hat sort of beings should be excluded from the stage ? 

What error is noticed in Jerusalem Delivered ? 

What remark is made by Voltaire ? 

Did Voltaire observe his own rule ? 
•■IVhat is the effect of too frequent introduction of the gods? 

What author successfully ridicules the modern use of the heathers 
mythology ? 

What is the effect of allegory ? 

What caution should be observed in using it? 

Give examples of the improper use of allegory. 

What is an episode ? 

Give examples. 
wWhzt is the effect of an episode ? 

When should l it be used ? — under what circumstances ? 
*«*What is required in a double plot? 

How is the requisition answered in the Provoked Husband? 

How in the Careless Husband ? 

How in the Merry Wives of Windsor ? 

Why is violent action not admissible on the stage ? 

Do the French allow it ? — did the Greeks ? 

How should the dialogue be conducted? 

Who excels in this ? 
-"■What is a common fault ? 
•■Is rhyme suitable for the drama? 

In what does Shakspeare show great judgment? 



THE THREE UNITIES. 265 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

The Three Unities. 

In the first chapter is explained the pleasure we 
have in a chain of connected facts. In histories of the 
world, of a country, of a people, this pleasure is faint 
because the connexions are slight. We find more en 
tertainment in biography ; because the incidents are 
connected by their relation to a person who makes a 
figure, and commands our attention. But the greatest 
entertainment is in the history of a single event, sup- 
posing it interesting ; because the facts and circum- 
stances are connected by the strongest of all relations, 
that of cause and effect : a number of facts that give 
birth to each other form a delightful train ; and we 
have great mental enjoyment in our progress from be- 
ginning to end. 

When we consider the chain of causes and effects 
in the material world, independent of purpose, design, 
or thought, we find incidents in succession, without be- 
ginning, middle, or end : every thing that happens is 
both a cause and an effect ; being the effect of what 
goes before, and the cause of what follows : one inci- 
dent may affect us more, another less ; but all of them 
are links in the chain : the mind, in viewing these in- 
cidents, cannot rest ultimately upon any one, but is 
carried along in the train without any close. 

But when the intellectual world is taken under view, 
in conjunction with the material, the scene is varied. 
Man acts with deliberation and choice : he aims at 
some end, glory, for example, or riches, or conquest, 
the procuring happiness to individuals, or to his country 
in general : he proposes means, and lays plans to at- 
tain the end purposed. Here are a number of facts 
or incidents leading to the end, and composing one 
chain by the relation of cause and effect. In running 
over a series of such facts, we cannot rest upon any 

A, 



266 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

one ; because they are presented to^us as means only, 
leading to some end: but we rest with satisfaction 
upon the ultimate event ; because there the purpose 
of the chief person is accomplished. This indicates 
the beginning, the middle, and the end of what Aristo- 
tle calls an entire action. The story begins with de- 
scribing those circumstances which move the principal 
person to form a plan, to compass some desired event : 
the prosecution of that plan, and the obstructions, 
carry the reader into the heat of action : the middle 
is properly where the action is the most involved; and 
the end is where the event is brought about, and the 
plan accomplished. 

A plan thus happily accomplished after many ob- 
structions, affords delight to the reader ; to produce 
which, a principle mentioned above mainly contributes, 
the same that disposes the mind to complete every 
work commenced, and in general to carry every thing 
to a conclusion. 

The foregoing example of a plan crowned with suc- 
cess, affords the clearest conception of a^eginning, 
middle, and end, in which consists unity of action; and 
stricter unity cannot be imagined. But an action may 
have unity, or a beginning, middle, and end, without 
so intimate a relation of parts ; as where the catas- 
trophe is different from what is intended or desired, 
which frequently happens in our best tragedies. In 
the JEneid, the hero, after many obstructions, makes 
his plan effectual. The Iliad is formed upon a differ- 
ent model : it begins with the quarrel between Achilles 
and Agamemnon ; goes on to describe the several ef- 
fects produced by that cause; and ends in a recon- 
ciliation. Here is unity of action, no doubt, a begin- 
ning, a middle, and an end ; but inferior to that of the 
JEneid, which will thus appear. The mind has a pro- 
pensity to go forward in the chain of history : it keeps 
always in view the expected event; and when the 
under parts are connected by their relation to the 
event, the mind runs sweetly and easily along them 



THE THREE UNITIES. 267 

This pleasure we have in the JEneid. It is not so 
pleasant, as in the Iliad, to connect effects by their 
common cause ; for such connexion forces the mind to 
a continual retrospect : looking back is like walking 
backward. 

Homer's plan is still more defective ; the events de- 
scribed are but imperfectly connected with the wrath 
of Achilles, their cause : his wrath did not exert itself 
in action ; and the misfortunes of his countrymen were 
but negatively the effects of his wrath, by depriving 
them of his assistance. 

If unity of action be a capital beauty in a fable 
imitative of human affairs, a plurality of unconnected 
fables must be a capital deformity. For the sake of 
variety, we indulge an under-plot that is connected 
with the principal ; but two unconnected events are 
extremely unpleasant, even where the same actors are 
engaged in both. Ariosto is quite licentious in that par- 
ticular : he carries on at the same time a plurality of 
unconnected stories. His only excuse is, that his plan 
is perfectly well adjusted to his subject ; for every 
thing in the Orlando Furioso is wild and extravagant. 
- Though to state facts in the order of time is natu- 
ral, that order may be varied, for the sake of con- 
spicuous beauties. If a noted story, cold and simple 
in its first movements, be made the subject of an epic 
poem, the reader may be hurried into the heat of ac- 
tion, reserving the preliminaries for a conversation 
piece, if necessary ; and that method has a peculiar 
beauty from being dramatic. But a privilege that 
deviates from nature ought to be sparingly indulged ; 
and yet romance writers make no difficulty of pre- 
senting to the reader, without preparation, unknown 
persons engaged in some arduous adventure equally 
unknown. In Cassandra, two personages, who after- 
wards are discovered to be the heroes of the fable, 
start up completely armed upon the banks of the 
Euphrates, and engage in a single combat. 

A play analyzed, is a chain of connected facts, of 



268 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

which each scene makes a link. Each scene, accord- 
ingly, ought to produce some incident relative to the 
catastrophe or ultimate event, by advancing or re- 
tarding it. A scene that produceth no incident, and 
for that reason may he termed barre?i, ought not to he 
indulged, because it breaks the unity of action : a bar- 
ren scene can never be entitled to a place, because 
the chain is complete without it. How successfully is 
this done by Shakspeare ! in whose works there is not 
to be found a single barren scene. 

All the facts in an historical fable ought to have a 
mutual connexion, by their common relation to the 
grand event or catastrophe ; and this relation, in which 
the unity of action consists, is equally essential to epic 
and dramatic compositions. 

The mind is satisfied with slighter unity in a picture 
than in a poem ; because the perceptions of the for- 
mer are more lively than the ideas of the latter. In 
Hogarttis Enraged Musician, we have a collection of 
every grating sound in nature, without any mutual 
connexion except that of place. But the horror they 
give to the delicate ear of an Italian fiddler, who is 
represented almost in convulsions, bestows unity upon 
the piece, with which the mind is satisfied. 

How far the unities of time and of place are essen- 
tial, is a question of greater intricacy. These unities 
were observed in the Greek and Roman theatres; 
and they are inculcated by the French and some En- 
glish critics, as essential to every dramatic composi- 
tion. 

The unities of place and time are not, by the most 
rigid critics, required in a narrative poem J because, if 
it pretend to copy nature, these unities would be ab- 
surd ; real events are seldom confined within narrow 
limits either of place or of time. And yet we can 
follow history, or an historical fable, through all its 
changes, with the greatest facility : we never once 
think of measuring the real time by what is taken in 



THE THREE UNITIES. 269 

reading ; nor of forming any connexion between the 
place of action and that which we occupy. 

The drama diners so far from the epic, as to admit 
different rules. "An historical fable, intended for 
reading solely, is under no limitation of time nor of 
place, more than a genuine history ; but that a dra- 
matic composition cannot be accurately represented, 
unless it be limited, as its representation is, to one 
place and to a few hours ; and therefore that it can 
admit no fable but what has these properties ; because 
it would be absurd to compose a piece for represent- 
ation that cannot be justly represented." This ar- 
gument has at least a plausible appearance; and 
yet one is apt to suspect some fallacy, considering 
that no critic, however strict, has ventured to confine 
the unities of place and of time within so narrow 
bounds. 

A view of the Grecian drama, compared with our 
own, may perhaps relieve us from this dilemma : if 
they be differently constructed, as shall be made evi- 
dent, it is possible that the foregoing reasoning may 
not be equally applicable to both. This is an article 
that, with relation to the present subject, has not been 
examined by any writer. 

All authors agree, that tragedy in Greece was de- 
rived from the hymns in praise of Bacchus, which were 
sung in parts of a chorus. Thespis, to relieve the 
singers, introduced one actor ; whose province it was 
to explain the subject of the song, and who represented 
one or other personage. ^Eschylus, introducing a sec- 
ond actor, formed the dialogue, by which the per- 
formance became dramatic ; the actors were multi- 
plied when the subject represented made it necessary. 
But still, the chorus, which gave a beginning to tragedy, 
was considered as an essential part. The first scene, 
generally, unfolds the preliminary circumstances that 
lead to the grand event ; and this scene is by Aristotle 
termed the prologue. In the second scene, where the 
action properly begins, the chorus is introduced, which 

X2 



270 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

as originally, continues upon the stage during the whole 
performance : the chorus frequently makes one in the 
dialogue ; and when the dialogue happens to be sus- 
pended, the chorus, during the interval, is employed 
in singing. Sophocles adheres to this plan religiously. 
Euripides is not altogether so correct. In some of his 
pieces, it becomes necessary to remove the chorus for 
a little time. But when that unusual step is risked, 
matters are so ordered as not to interrupt the repre- 
sentation : the chorus never leave the stage of their 
own accord, but at the command of some principal 
personage, who constantly waits their return. 

Thus the Grecian drama is a continued representa- 
tion without interruption. Hence the unities of place 
and of time were strictly observed in the Greek trage- 
dies ; which is made necessary by the constitution of 
their drama, for it is absurd to compose a tragedy that 
cannot be justly represented. 

Modern critics, who for our drama pretend to estab- 
lish rules founded on the practice of the Greeks, are 
guilty of an egregious blunder. The unities of place 
and of time were in Greece a matter of necessity, not 
of choice ; and if we submit to such fetters, it must 
be from choice, not necessity. This will be evident 
upon taking a view of the constitution of our drama, 
which differs widely from that of Greece; whether 
more or less perfect is a different point, to be handled 
afterward. By dropping the chorus, opportunity is 
afforded to divide the representation by intervals of 
time, during which the stage is evacuated, and the 
spectacle suspended. This qualifies our drama for 
subjects spread through a wide space both of time and 
of place : the time supposed to pass during the sus- 
pension of the representation, is not measured by the 
time of suspension; and any place may be supposed 
when the representation is renewed, with as much fa- 
cility as when it commenced : by which means, many 
subjects can be justly represented in our theatres, that 
were excluded from those of ancient Greece. This 



THE THREE UNITIES. 271 

doctrine may be illustrated, by comparing a modern 
play to a set of historical pictures; let us suppose 
them five in number, and the resemblance will be 
complete. Each of the pictures resembles an act in 
one of our plays ; there must necessarily be the strict- 
est unity of place and of time in each picture ; and 
the same necessity requires these two unities during 
each act of a play, because during an act there is no 
interruption in the spectacle. Now, when we view in 
succession a number of such historical pictures, let it 
be, for example, the history of Alexander by Le Brun, 
we have no difficulty to conceive, that months or years 
have passed between the events exhibited in two dif- 
ferent pictures, though the interruption is impercepti- 
ble in passing our eye from the one to the other ; and 
we have -as little difficulty to conceive a change of 
place, however great. In which view, there is truly 
no difference between five acts of a modern play, and 
five such pictures. Where the representation is sus- 
pended, we can with the greatest facility suppose any 
length of time or any change of place : the spectator, 
it is true, may be conscious that the real time and 
place are not the same with what are employed in the 
representation : but this is a work of reflection ; and 
by the same reflection he may also be conscious that 
Garrick is not king Lear, that the play-house is not 
Dover cliffs, nor the noise he hears thunder and light- 
ning. In a word, after an interruption of the repre- 
sentation, it is no more difficult for a spectator to ima- 
gine a new place, or a different time, than at the com- 
mencement of the play to imagine himself at Rome, 
or in a period of time two thousand years back. And 
indeed, it is abundantly ridiculous, that a critic, who 
is willing to hold candle-light for sun-shine, and some 
painted canvases for a palace or a prison, should be 
so scrupulous about admitting any latitude of place or 
of time in the fable, beyond what is necessary in the 
representation. 

There are some effects of great latitude in time that 



272 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

ought never to be indulged in a composition for the 
theatre : nothing can he more absurd, than at the close 
to exhibit a full-grown person who appears a child at 
the beginning: the mind rejects, as contrary to all 
probability, such latitude of time as is requisite for a 
change so remarkable. The greatest change from 
place to place has not altogether the same bad effect. 

In the bulk of human affairs, place is not material ; 
and the mind, when occupied with an interesting event, 
is little regardful of minute circumstances : these may 
be varied at will, because they scarce make any im- 
pression. 

But though I have taken arms to rescue modern 
poets from the despotism of modern critics, I would 
not be understood to justify liberty without any re- 
serve. An unbounded license with relation to time 
and place, is faulty, because it seldom fails to break 
the unity of action. In the ordinary course of human 
affairs, single events, such as are represented on the 
stage, are confined to a narrow spot, and commonly 
employ no great extent of time : we accordingly sel- 
dom find strict unity of action in a dramatic composi- 
tion, where any remarkable latitude is indulged in 
these particulars. Further, a composition which em- 
ploys but one place, and requires not a greater length 
of time than is necessary for the representation, is so 
much the more perfect; because the confining an event 
within so narrow bounds, contributes to the unity of 
action, and prevents that labor, which the mind must 
undergo in imagining frequent changes of place and 
many intervals of time. But such limitation of place 
and time as was necessary in the Grecian drama, is 
no rule to us ; and though it adds one beauty more 
to the composition, it is but a refinement which may 
justly give place to a thousand beauties more substan- 
tial. And it is extremely difficult to contract within 
the Grecian limits, any fable so fruitful of incidents in 
number and variety, as to give full scope to the fluc- 
tuation of passion. 



THE THREE UNITIES. 273 

Considering attentively the ancient drama, we find, 
that though the representation is never interrupted, the 
principal action is suspended not less frequently than 
in the modern drama : there are five acts in each ; and 
the only difference is, that in the former, when the ac- 
tion is suspended as it is at the end of every act, op- 
portunity is taken of the interval to employ the chorus 
in singing. Hence it appears, that the Grecian con- 
tinuity of representation cannot have the effect to 
prolong the impression of reality : to hanish that im- 
pression, a pause in the action while the chorus is em- 
ployed in singing, is no less effectual than a total sus- 
pension of the representation. 

A representation with proper pauses, is better quali- 
fied for making a deep impression, than a continued 
representation without a pause. Representation can- 
not very long support an impression of reality ; for 
when the spirits are exhausted by close attention and 
by the agitation of passion, an uneasiness ensues, which 
never fails to banish the waking dream. Supposing 
the time that a man can employ with strict attention 
without wandering, to be no greater than is requisite 
for a single act; it follows that a continued represent- 
ation of longer endurance than an act, instead of 
giving scope to a fluctuation and swelling of passion, 
would overstrain the attention, and produce a total 
absence of mind. In that respect, the four pauses 
have a fine effect; for by affording to the audience a 
seasonable respite when the impression of reality is 
gone, and while nothing material is in agitation, they 
relieve the mind from its fatigue, and prevent a wan- 
dering of thought at the very time possibly of the 
most interesting scenes. 

In one article the Grecian model has the advantage: 
its chorus during an interval not only preserves alive 
the impressions made upon the audience, but prepares 
their hearts finely for new impressions. In our thea- 
tres, the audience, at the end of every act, being left 
to trifle time away, lose every warm impression ; and 



274 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

they begin the next act cool and unconcerned, as at 
the commencement of the representation. This is a 
gross malady in our theatrical representations ; but a 
malady that luckily is not incurable. The music we 
enjoy between the acts, and which accords with the 
present tone of mind, is, on that account, doubly 
agreeable ; and accordingly, though music singly hath 
not power to raise a passion, it tends greatly to sup- 
port a passion already raised.. Further, music pre- 
pares us for the passion that follows, by making cheer- 
ful, tender, melancholy, or animated impressions, as the 
subject requires. Take for an example the first scene 
of the Mourning Bride, where soft music, in a melan- 
choly strain, prepares us for Almeria's deep distress. 
In this manner, music and representation support each 
other delightfully : the impression made upon the 
audience by the representation, is a fine preparation 
for the music that succeeds ; and the impression made 
by the music, is a fine preparation for the representa- 
tion that succeeds. 

REVIEW. 

Why is the history of a single event more interesting than a 
general history ? 

Upon which series of connected events do we dwell with most 
satisfaction ? 

Describe the beginning of an entire action — the middle — the 
end. 

What principle produces the satisfaction derived from such an 
action ? 

In what does unity of action consist? 

Which possesses the greater unity of action, the JEneid or Iliad? 

What defect in the plan of the Iliad is pointed out? — in the Or- 
lando Furioso? 

What license is used by romance writers ? 

Give an example. 

What is required in the several scenes of a play? 

What is meant by a barren scene? 

What dramatic writer has none? 

In what relation does unity of action consist? 

From what does the unity of Hogarth's Enraged Musician 
arise ? 

By whom are the unities of time and place observed ? 

Why are they not required in a narrative poem ? 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 275 

What argument is offered in favor of observing the unities of 
time and place ? 

What was the origin of the Greek tragedy ? 

What improvement did Thespis make ? — what did iEschylus? 

What part did the chorus perform ? 

Is the chorus continually on the stage? 

Was the representation ever interrupted in the Grecian drama? 

What was the consequence with respect to the unities ? 

Why is it absurd to found rules for the modern on the Greek 
drama? 

How are the moderns enabled to disregard the unities of time 
and place with propriety ? 

How is this doctrine illustrated ? 

Can the unity of time be too much violated ? 

Give an example. 

Is a great disregard of the unity of place so injurious ? 

Why is an unbounded license with respect to the unities of 
time and place, faulty ? 

Is a strict compliance with the unities of time and place a 
beauty ? 

Is it very important ? 

How was the representation of the ancient drama suspended? 

What was the effect of this suspension of the action ? 

What is the advantage of the pauses between the acts of 3 
drama ? 

What advantage arose from the use of the chorus ? 

What is the use of music between the acts of a drama? 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

Gardening and Architecture. 

Gardening was at first an useful art : in the garden 
of Alcinous, described by Homer, we find nothing done 
for pleasure merely. But gardening is now improved 
into a fine art ; and when we talk of a garden with- 
out any epithet, a pleasure-garden, by way of emi- 
nence, is understood. The garden of Alcinous, in mod- 
ern language, was but a kitchen-garden. Architec- 
ture has run the same course : it continued many ages 
an useful art merely, without aspiring to be classed 
with the fine arts. Architecture, therefore, and gar- 
dening, being useful arts as well as fine arts, afford two 



4* 

276 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

different views. The reader will not here expect rules 
for improving any work of art in point of utility; it 
being no part of my plan to treat of any useful art as 
such: but there is a beauty in utility; and in discours- 
ing of beauty, that of utility must not be neglected. 
This leads us to consider gardens and buildings in dif- 
ferent views : they may be destined for use solely, for 
beauty solely, or for both. Such variety of destina- 
tion, bestows upon these arts a/ great command of beau- 
ties, complex no less than varibus. Hence the difficulty 
of forming an accurate taste in gardening and archi- 
tecture : and hence that difference and wavering of 
taste in these arts, greater than in any art that has 
but a single destination. 

Architecture and gardening entertain the mind, by 
raising agreeable emotions or feelings ; with which we 
must begin, as the true foundation of all the rules of 
criticism that govern these arts. Gardening, beside 
the emotions of beauty from regularity, order, propor- 
tion, color, and utility, raises the emotions of grandeur, 
sweetness, gaiety, melancholy, wildness, and even of 
surprise or wonder. In architecture, the beauties of 
regularity, order, and proportion, are more conspicuous 
than in gardening ; but architecture is inferior as to 
the beauty of color. Grandeur can be expressed in a 
building more successfully than in a garden ; but as to 
the other emotions above mentioned, architecture has 
not been brought to the perfection of expressing them 
distinctly, To balance that defect, it can display the 
beauty of utility in the highest perfection. 

Gardening possesses one advantage, never to be 
equalled in the other art : in various scenes, it can 
raise successively all the different emotions above men- 
tioned. But to produce that delicious effect, the gar- 
den must be extensive, so as to admit a slow succession: 
for a small garden, comprehended at one view, ought 
to be confined to one expression ; it may be gay, or 
sweet, or gloomy*'; but an attempt to mix these, would 
create a jumble of emotions not a little unpleasant. 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 277 

For the same reason, a building, the most magnificent, 
is confined to one expression. 

Architecture, as a fine art, instead of being a rival 
to gardening in its progress, seems not far advanced 
beyond its infant state. To bring it to maturity, two 
things are wanted. First, a greater variety of parts 
and ornaments than at present it seems provided with. 
Gardening here has the advantage ; it is provided with 
plenty of materials for raising scenes without end, af- 
fecting the spectator with a variety of emotions. In 
architecture, the materials are so scanty, that artists 
hitherto have not been successful in raising any emo- 
tions but of beauty and grandeur : with respect to the 
former, there are plenty of means, regularity, order, 
symmetry, simplicity, utility; and with respect to the 
latter, the addition of size is sufficient. But though 
every building ought to have a certain character or 
expression suited to its destination, this refinement has 
scarce been attempted by any artist. 

The other thing wanted to bring the art to per- 
fection, is, to ascertain the precise impression made by 
every single part and ornament, as cupolas, spires, 
columns, carvings, statues, vases, &c; for in vain will 
an artist attempt rules for employing these, either 
singly or in combination, until the different emotions 
they produce be distinctly explained. 

In gardening as well as in architecture, simplicity 
ought to be a ruling principle. Profuse ornament hath 
no better effect than to confound the eye, and prevent 
the object from making an impression as one entire 
whole. An artist destitute of genius for capital beau- 
ties, is prompted to supply the defect by crowding his 
plan with slight embellishments : hence in a garden, 
triumphal arches,Chinese houses, temples, obelisks, cas- 
cades, fountains, without end ; and in a building, pil- 
lars, vases, statues, and a profusion of carved work. 
Superfluity of decoration hath another bad effect ; it 
gives the object a diminutive look: an island in a wide 
extended lake makes it appear larger ; but an artifi- 



278 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

cial lake, which is always little, appears still less by 
making an island in it. 

In forming plans for embellishing a field, an artist 
without taste employs straight lines, circles and squares, 
because these look best upon paper. He perceives 
not, that to humor and adorn nature, is the perfection 
of his art; and that nature, neglecting regularity 
distributes her objects in great variety with a bold 
hand. A large field laid out with strict regularity, is 
stiff and artificial. 

Having thus far carried on a comparison between 
gardening and architecture; rules peculiar to each 
come next in order, beginning with gardening. The 
simplest plan of a garden, is that embellished with a 
number of natural objects, trees, walks, polished par- 
terres, flowers, streams, &c. One more complex com- 
prehends statues and buildings, that nature and art 
may be mutually ornamented. A third, approaching 
nearer perfection, is of objects assembled together, to 
produce not only an emotion of beauty, but also some 
other particular emotion, grandeur, for example, gaiety, 
or any other above mentioned. The completest plan 
of a garden is an improvement upon the third, re- 
quiring the several parts to be so arranged, as to in- 
spire all the different emotions that can be raised by 
gardening. In this plan, the arrangement is an im- 
portant circumstance; for it has been shown, that 
some emotions figure best in conjunction, and that 
others ought always to appear in succession, and never 
in conjunction. When the most opposite emotions, 
such as gloominess and gaiety, stillness and activity, 
follow each other in succession, the pleasure, on the 
whole, will be the greatest : but such emotions ought 
not to be united, because they produce an unpleasant 
mixture.. For this reason, a ruin, affording a melan- 
choly pleasure, ought not to be seen from a flower par- 
terre, which is gay and cheerful. But to pass from 
an exhilarating object to a ruin, has a fine effect ; for 
each of the emotions is the more sensibly felt by be- 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 279 

mg contrasted with the other. Similar emotions, on 
the other hand, such as gaiety and sweetness, stillness 
and gloominess, motion and grandeur, ought to be 
raised together ; for their effects upon the mind are 
heightened by their conjunction. 

Kent's method of embellishing a field is admirable; 
which is to replenish it with beautiful objects, natural 
and artificial, disposed as they ought to be upon a can- 
vas in painting. 

A single garden must be distinguished from a plu- 
rality ; yet it is not obvious in what the unity of a 
garden consists. The gardens of Versailles, properly 
expressed in the plural number, being no fewer than 
sixteen, are all of them connected with the palace, 
but have scarce any mutual connexion : they appear 
not like parts of one whole, but like small gardens in 
contiguity. 

Regularity is required in that part of the garden 
adjacent to the dwelling-house ; because an immediate 
accessory ought to partake the regularity of the princi- 
pal object; but in proportion to the distance from the 
house considered as the centre, regularity ought to 
be less studied. A small garden, on the other hand, 
which admits not grandeur, ought to be strictly regular. 

A hill covered with trees, appears more beautiful as 
well as more lofty than when naked. To distribute 
trees in a plain requires more art : near the dwelling- 
house they ought to be scattered so distant from each 
other, as >iot to break the unity of the field ; and even 
at the greatest distance of distinct vision, they ought 
never to be so crowded as to hide any beautiful ob- 
ject. 

In the manner of planting a wood or thicket, much 
art may be displayed. A common centre of walks, 
termed a star, from whence are seen remarkable ob- 
jects, appears too artificial, stiff, and formal, to be 
agreeable : the crowding objects together, lessens the 
pleasure that would be felt in a slower succession. 

An object terminating a narrow opening in a wood, 



280 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

appears at a double distance. To place a number of 
thickets in a line, with an opening in each, directing 
the eye from one to another, will make them appear 
more remote than they are in reality, and in appear- 
ance enlarge the size of the whole field. 

By a judicious distribution of trees, other beauties 
may be produced. A landscape so rich as to engross 
the whole attention, and so limited as sweetly to be 
comprehended under a single view, has a much finer 
effect than the most extensive landscape that requires 
a wandering of the eye through successive scenes. 
This observation suggests a capital rule in laying out 
a field ; which is, never at any one station to admit a 
larger prospect than can easily be taken in at once. 

As gardening is but an imitation of nature, or ra- 
ther nature ornamented, every thing unnatural ought 
to be rejected. Statues of wild beasts vomiting wa- 
ter], a common ornament in gardens, prevail ki those 
of Versailles. A jet d'eau, being purely artificial, may, 
without disgust, be tortured into a thousand shapes. 

In gardening, every lively exhibition of what is 
beautiful in nature has a fine effect : but distant and 
faint imitations are displeasing. The cutting ever- 
greens in the shape of animals, is very ancient. The 
propensity to imitation gave birth to that practice; 
and has supported it long, considering how faint and 
insipid the imitation is. But the vulgar, great and 
small, are entertained with the oddness and singularity 
of a resemblance, however distant, between a tree and 
an animal. An attempt in the gardens of Versailles to 
imitate a grove of trees by a group of jets tfeau, ap- 
pears, for the same reason, no less childish. 

In designing a garden, every thing trivial or whimsi- 
cal ought to be avoided. A labyrinth is a mere con- 
ceit, like that of composing verses in the shape of an 
ax or an egg : the walks and hedges may be agreea- 
ble ; but in the form of a labyrinth, they serve to no 
end but to puzzle : a riddle is a conceit not so mean; 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 281 

because the solution is proof of sagacity, which affords 
no aid in tracing a labyrinth. 

A straight road is the most agreeable, because it 
shortens the journey. But in an embellished field a 
straight walk has an air of formality, and is less agreea- 
ble than a winding walk ; for in surveying the beauties 
of an ornamented field, we love to roam from place to 
place at freedom. Winding walks at every step open 
new views, and the walks in pleasure-grounds ought 
not to have any appearance of a road : my intention 
is not to make a journey, but to feast my eye on the 
beauties of art and nature. 

Avoid a straight avenue directed upon a dwelling- 
house; better far an oblique approach in a waving 
line, with single trees and other scattered objects in- 
terposed. In a direct approach, the first appearance 
is continued to the end ; we see a house at a distance, 
and we see it all along in the same spot without any 
variety. 

A garden on a flat ought to be highly and variously 
ornamented, in order to occupy the mind, and prevent 
our regretting the insipidity of an uniform plan. Ar- 
tificial mounts in that view are common : but no per- 
son has thought of an artificial walk elevated high 
above the plain. Such a walk is airy, tending to elevate 
the mind; it extends and varies the prospect; and it 
makes the plain, seen from a height, appear more 
agreeable. 

A ruin should be in the Gothic form, because it ex- 
hibits the triumph of time over strength; a melancholy 
but not unpleasant thought : a Grecian ruin suggests 
rather the triumph of barbarity over taste : a gloomy 
and discouraging thought. 

There are not many fountains in a good taste. Sta- 
tues of animals vomiting water, stand condemned as 
unnatural. 

Hitherto a garden has been treated as a work in- 
tended solely for pleasure, or giving impressions of in- 
trinsic beauty. Next in order, the beauty of a gar- 



282 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

den destined for use, termed relative beauty, shall be 
dispatched in few words. In gardening, relative beauty 
need never stand in opposition to intrinsic beauty ; all 
the ground that can be requisite for use, makes but a 
small proportion of an ornamented field ; and may be 
put in any corner without obstructing the disposition 
of the capital parts. At the same time, a kitchen 
garden or an orchard is susceptible of intrinsic beauty 
and may be so artfully disposed among the other parts, 
as by variety and contrast to contribute to the beauty 
of the whole. In this respect, architecture requires 
a greater stretch of art, as will be seen immediately : 
for as intrinsic and relative beauty must often be 
blended in the same building, it becomes a difficult task 
to attain both in any perfection. 

In a hot country, it is a capital object to have what 
may be termed a summer garden; a spot of ground 
disposed by art and by nature to exclude the sun, but 
to give free access to the air. In a cold country, the 
capital object should be a winter garden, open to the 
sun, sheltered from wind, dry under foot, and taking 
on the appearance of summer by variety of ever- 
greens. The relish of a country life, totally extinct 
in France, is decaying fast in Britain. But as many 
people of fashion, and some of taste, pass the winter, 
or part of it, in the country, it is amazing that winter 
gardens should be overlooked. During summer, every 
field is a garden; but during half of the year, the 
weather is seldom so good in Britain as to afford com- 
fort in the open air without shelter ; and yet seldom 
so bad as not to afford comfort with shelter. Beside 
providing for exercise and health, a winter garden 
may be made subservient ^education, by introducing 
a habit of thinking. In youth, lively spirits give too 
great a propensity to pleasure and amusement, making 
us averse to serious occupation. That untoward bias 
may be corrected in some degree by a winter garden, 
which produces in the mind a calm satisfaction, free 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 283 

from agitation of passion, whether gay or gloomy ; a 
fine tone of mind for meditation and reasoning. 

I proceed now to rules and observations that more 
peculiarly concern architecture. Architecture, being 
an useful as well as a fine art, leads us to distinguish 
buildings and parts of buildings into three kinds, — 
namely, what are intended for utility solely, what for 
ornament solely, and what for both. Buildings in- 
tended for utility, such as detached offices, ought partly 
to correspond precisely to that intention ; the slightest 
deviation from the end in view is a blemish. In gene- 
ral, it is the perfection of every work of art, that it 
fulfils the purpose for which it is intended ; and every 
other beauty, in opposition, is improper. But in things 
intended for ornament, as pillars, obelisks, triumphal 
arches, beauty alone ought to be regarded. The great 
difficulty of contrivance respects buildings that are 
intended to be useful as well as ornamental. These 
ends, employing different and often opposite means, 
are seldom united in perfection ; and the only practica- 
ble method in such buildings is, to favor ornament less 
or more according to the character of the building : in 
palaces, and other edifices sufficiently extensive to ad- 
mit a variety of useful contrivance, regularity justly 
takes the lead; but in dwelling-houses, that are too 
small for a variety of contrivance, utility ought to 
prevail, neglecting regularity as far as it stands in op- 
position to convenience. 

Intrinsic and relative beauty, being founded on dif- 
ferent principles, must be handled separately. I be- 
gin with relative beauty, as of the greater importance. 
The proportions of a door are determined by the use 
to which it is destined. The door of a dwelling-house 
is confined to seven or eight feet in height, and three 
or four in breadth. The proportions proper for the 
door of a barn or coach-house are different, because 
to study intrinsic beauty in a coach-house or barn, is 
improper. The principal door of a palace demands 
all the grandeur that is consistent with the proportions 



284 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

dictated by utility : it ought to be elevated and ap- 
proached by steps, and adorned with pillars supporting 
an architrave. The door of a church ought to be 
wide, to afford an easy passage for a multitude, and 
the width regulates the height. The size of windows 
ought to be proportioned to that of the room they illu- 
minate. The steps of a stair ought to be accommo- 
dated to the human figure, without regarding any other 
proportion: they are accordingly the same in large 
and in small buildings, because both are inhabited by 
men of the same size. 

I proceed to consider intrinsic beauty blended with 
that which is relative. Though a cube in itself is 
more agreeable than a parallelopipedon, yet a large 
parallelopipedon set on its smaller base, is by its ele- 
vation more agreeable ; and hence the beauty of a 
Gothic tower. But supposing this figure to be destined 
for a dwelling-house, to make way for relative beauty, 
we immediately perceive that utility ought chiefly to 
be regarded, and that the figure, inconvenient by its 
height, ought to be set upon its larger base : for which 
reason, a figure spread more upon the ground than 
raised rn ■■■height* is always preferred for a dwelling- 
house, without excepting even the most superb palace. 

As to the divisions within, utility requires that the 
rooms be rectangular ; for otherwise void spaces would 
be left. An hexagonal figure leaves no void spaces, but 
it determines the rooms to be all of one size, which is 
convenient. A room of a moderate size may be a square; 
but in very large rooms this figure must give place to 
a parallelogram, which can more easily be adjusted 
than a square to the smaller rooms contrived entirely 
for convenience. A parallelogram^ at the same time, 
is best calculated for receiving light ; because, to avoid 
cross lights, all the windows ought to be in one wall ; 
and the opposite wall must be so near as to be fully 
lighted, otherwise the room will be obscure. The 
height of a room exceeding nine or ten feet, has little 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE, 285 

or no relation to utility, and therefore proportion is 
the only rule for determining a greater height. 

In palaces and sumptuous buildings, intrinsic beauty 
ou^ht to have the ascendant over that which is rela- 
tive. But in dwelling-houses of moderate size, in- 
trinsic beauty cannot be displayed in any perfection, 
without wounding relative beauty ; and yet architects 
never give over attempting to reconcile these two in- 
compatibles; how otherwise should it happen, that of 
the endless variety of private dwelling-houses, there 
is scarce an instance of any one being chosen for a 
pattern ? 

Nothing can be more evident, than that the form of 
a dwelling-house ought to be suited to the climate : 
and yet no error is more common, than to copy in 
Britain the form of Italian houses ; not forgetting even 
those parts that are purposely contrived for air, and 
for excluding the sun. 

Having said what appeared necessary upon relative 
beauty, the next step is, to view architecture as one 
of the fine arts. In the w T orks of nature, rich and 
magnificent, variety prevails: and in w r orks of art 
that are contrived to imitate nature, the great art is 
to hide? every appearance of art; which is done by 
avoiding regularity, and indulging variety. But in 
works of art, that are original, and not imitative, 
the timid hand is guided by rule and compass J and 
accordingly in architecture strict regularity and uni- 
formity are studied, as far as is consistent with utility. 

Proportion of parts is not only itself a beauty, but 
is inseparably connected with a beauty of the highest 
relish, that of concord or harmony; which will be 
plain from what follows. A room of which the parts 
are all finely adjusted to each other, strikes us with 
the beauty of proportion. It strikes tts, at the same 
time, with a pleasure far superior : the length, the 
breadth, the height, the windows, raise each of them 
separately an emotion : these emotions are similar, 
and though faint when felt separately, they produce 



286 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

in conjunction the emotion of concord or harmony, 
which is extremely pleasant. On the other hand, 
where the length of a room far exceeds the breadth, 
the mind, comparing together parts so intimately 
connected, immediately perceives a disagreement or 
disproportion which disgusts. But this is not all: 
viewing them separately, different emotions are pro- 
duced, that of grandeur from the great length, and 
that of meanness or littleness from the small breadth, 
which in union are disagreeable by their discordance. 
Hence it is, that a long gallery, however convenient 
for exercise, is not an agreeable figure of a room : we 
consider it, like a stable, as destined for use, and ex- 
pect not that in any other respect it should be agree- 
able. 

Regularity and proportion are essential in buildings 
destined chiefly or solely to please the eye, because 
they produce intrinsic beauty. But a skilful artist 
will not confine his view to regularity and proportion : 
he will also study congruity, which is perceived when 
the form and ornaments of a structure are suited to 
the purpose for which it is intended. The sense of 
congruity dictates the following rule, That every 
building have an expression corresponding to its desti- 
nation : a palace ought to be sumptuous and grand; a 
private dwelling, neat and modest ; a playhouse, gay 
and splendid; and a monument, gloomy and melancholy. 
A heathen temple has a double destination : it is con- 
sidered chiefly as a house dedicated to some divinity, 
and in that respect it ought to be grand, elevated, and 
magnificent ; it is considered also as a place of wor- 
ship, and in that respect it ought to be somewhat dark 
or gloomy, because dimness produces that tone of mind 
which is suited to humility and devotion. A Christian 
church is not considered to be a house for the Deity, 
but merely a place of worship : it ought therefore to 
be decent and plain,! without much ornament: a situa- 
tion ought to be chosen low and retired ; because the 
congregation, during worship, ought to be humble and 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 287 

disengaged from the world. Columns, beside their chief 
service of being supports, may contribute to that pe- 
culiar expression which the destination of a building 
requires ; columns of different proportions, serve to 
express loftiness, lightness, &c. as well as strength. 
Situation also may contribute to expression : conve- 
niency regulates the situation of a private dwelling- 
house ; but, as I have had occasion to observe, the 
situation of a palace ought to be lofty. 

And this leads to a question, Whether the situation, 
where there happens to be no choice, ought, in any 
measure, to regulate the form of the edifice? The 
connexion between a large house and the neighboring 
fields, though not intimate, demands, however, some 
congruity. It would, for example, displease us to find 
an elegant building thrown away upon a wild unculti- 
vated country : congruity requires a polished field for 
such a building ; and beside the pleasure of congruity, 
the spectator is sensible of the pleasure of concordance 
from the similarity of the emotions produced by the 
two objects. The old Gothic form of building seems 
well suited to the rough uncultivated regions where it 
was invented ; the only mistake was, the transferring 
this form to the fine plains of France and Italy, better 
for buildings in the Grecian taste; but by refining 
upon the Gothic form, every thing possible has been 
done to reconcile it to its new situation. The profuse 
variety of wild and grand objects about Inverary de- 
manded a house in a Gothic form ; and every one must 
approve the taste of the proprietor, in adjusting so 
finely the appearance of his house to that of the 
country where it is placed. 

The external structure of a great house, leads 
naturally to its internal structure. A spacious room, 
which is the first that commonly receives us, seems a 
bad contrivance in several respects. In the first place, 
when immediately from the open air we step into such 
a room, its size in appearance is diminished by con- 
trast : it looks littlo compared with that great canopy 



288 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

the sky. In the next place, when it recovers its gran- 
deur, as it soon doth, it gives a diminutive appearance 
to the rest of the house : passing from it, every apart- 
ment looks little. 

A great room, which enlarges the mind and gives a 
certain elevation to the spirits, is destined by nature 
for conversation. Rejecting therefore this form, I take 
a hint from the climax in writing for another form 
that appears more suitable, by a progression from 
small to great. If the house be very largp* there may 
be space for the following suit of roomiufirst, a por- 
tico ; second, a passage within the house, bounded by 
a double row of columns connected by arcades ; third, 
an octagon room, or of any other figure, about the 
centre of the building ; and lastly, the great room. ., 

Artists have generally an inclination to form me 
great room into a double cube, even with the incon- 
venience of a double row of windows : they are pleased 
with the regularity, overlooking that it is mental only, 
and not visible to the eye, which seldom can distinguish 
between the height of 24 feet and that of 30. 

Of all the emotions that can be raised by architec- 
ture, grandeur is that which has the greatest influence 
on the mind ; and it ought therefore to be the chief 
study of the artist. But as grandeur depends partly 
on size, it seems so far unlucky for architecture, that 
it is governed by ^regularity and proportion. But 
though regularity and proportion contribute nothing 
to grandeur as far as that emotion depends on size, 
they in a different respect contribute greatly to it, as 
has been explained above. 

Next of ornaments, which contribute to give build- 
ings a peculiar expression. A private dwelling-house 
and other edifices where use is the chief aim, admit 
not regularly any ornament but what has the appear- 
ance, at least, of use : but temples, triumphal arches, 
and other buildings intended chiefly or solely for show, 
admit every sort of ornament. 

A thing intended merely as an ornament, may be of 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 289 

any figure ; if it please the spectator, the artist gains 
his end. Statues, vases, sculpture upon stone, whether 
basso or alto relievo, are beautiful ornaments. A 
statue in perfection is an enchanting work ; and we 
naturally require that it should be seen in every di- 
rection and at different distances ; for which reason, 
statues employed as ornaments are proper to adorn the 
great staircase that leads to the principal door of a 
palace, or to occupy the void between pillars. But a 
niche in the external front is not a proper place for a 
statue. To adorn the top of a wall with a row of 
vases is an unhappy conceit, by placing things appa- 
rently of use where they cannot be of any use. Upon 
the pedestal, whether of a statue or a column, the 
ancients never ventured any bolder ornament than the 
basso-relievo. 

Long robes appear noble, not singly for their flowing 
lines, but for their being the habit of magistrates; and 
a scarf acquires an air of dignity by being the badge 
of a superior order of churchmen. These examples 
may be thought sufficient for a specimen : a diligent 
inquiry into human nature will discover other in- 
fluencing principles; and hence it is, that of all sub- 
jects ornaments admit the greatest variety in point of 
taste. 

We find three orders of columns among the Greeks; 
the Doric, the Ionic, and the Corinthian, distinguished 
from each other by their destination as well as by 
their ornaments. 

The only circumstances that can serve to distinguish 
one order from another, are the form of the column, 
and its destination. To make the first a distinguishing 
mark, without regard to the other, would multiply 
these orders without end ; for a color is not more sus- 
ceptible of different shades, than a column is of differ- 
ent forms. Destination is more limited, as it leads to 
distinguish columns into three kinds or orders: one 
plain and strong, for the purpose of supporting plain 
and massy buildings; one delicate and graceful, for 

Z 



290 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM 

supporting buildings of that character , and between 
these, one for supporting buildings of a middle charac- 
ter. This distinction, which regards the different pur- 
poses of a column, is not naturally liable to any objec- 
tion, considering that it tends also to regulate the form, 
and in some measure the ornaments, of a column 

If we regard destination only, the Tuscan is of the 
same order with the Doric, and the Composite with 
the Corinthian ; but if we regard form merely, they 
are of different orders. 

The ornaments of these three orders ought to be so 
contrived as to make them look like what they are 
intended for. Plain and rustic ornaments would be not 
a little discordant with the elegance of the Corinthian 
order ; and ornaments sweet and delicate, no less so 
with the strength of the Doric. The Corinthian order 
has been the favorite of two thousand years, and yet 
I cannot force myself to relish its capital. The in- 
vention of this florid capital is ascribed to the sculptor 
Callimachus, who took a hint from the plant Acanthus 
growing around a basket placed accidentally upon it ; 
and in fact the capital under consideration represents 
pretty accurately a basket so ornamented : an Acan- 
thus, or any tender plant, may require support, but is 
altogether insufficient to support any thing heavier 
than a bee or a butterfly. This capital must also 
bear the weight of another objection: to represent a 
vine wreathing round a column with its root seemingly 
in the ground, is natural; but to represent an Acan- 
thus, or any plant, as growing on the top of a column, 
is unnatural. The elegance of this capital did proba-l 
bly at first draw a veil over its impropriety; and now] 
by long use it has gained an establishment, respected! 
by every artist. Such is the force of custom, even inl 
contradiction to nature ! 

With respect to buildings of every sort, one rule 
dictated by utility, is, that they be firm and stable.1 
Another rule, dictated by beauty, is, that they also 
appear so : for what appears tottering and in hazard 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 291 

of tumbling, produceth in the spectator the painful 
emotion of fear, instead of the pleasant emotion of 
beauty ; and, accordingly, it is the great care of the 
artist, that every part of his edifice appear to be well 
supported. 

To succeed in allegorical or emblematic ornaments, 
is no slight effort of genius; for it is extremely difficult 
to dispose them so in a building as to produce any good 
effect. The mixing them with realities, makes a 
miserable jumble of truth and fiction. The temples 
of Ancient and Modern Virtue in the gardens of Stowe 
appear not at first view emblematical; and when we 
are informed that they are so, it is not easy to gather 
their meaning : the spectator sees one temple entire, 
another in ruins ; but without an explanatory inscrip- 
tion he may guess, but cannot be certain, that the 
former being dedicated to Ancient Virtue, the latter 
to Modern Virtue, are intended as a satire upon the 
present times. On the other hand, a trite emblem, like 
a trite simile, is disgustful. A room in a dwelling-house 
containing a monument to a deceased friend, is dedica- 
ted to Melancholy : it has a clock that strikes every 
minute, to signify how swiftly time passes — upon the 
monument, weeping figures and other hackneyed or- 
naments commonly found upon tomb-stones, with a 
stuffed raven in a corner — verses on death, and other 
serious subjects, inscribed all around. These objects 
are too familiar, and the artifice too apparent, to pro- 
duce the intended effect.* 

The statue of Moses striking a rock from which 
water actually issues, is also in a false taste ; for it is 
mixing reality with representation. Moses himself 
may bring water out of the rock, but this miracle is 

* In the city of Mexico there was a palace termed the house of 
affliction, where Montezuma retired upon losing any of his friends 
or upon any public calamity. This house was better adjusted to 
its destination : it inspired a sort of horror : all was black and 
dismal ; small windows, shut up with grates, scarce allowing pas- 
sage to the light. 




292 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

too much for his statue. The same objection lies 
against a cascade where the statue of a water-god 
pours out of his urn real water. 

I am more doubtful whether the same objection lies 
against the employing statues of animals as supports ; 
that of a negro, for example, supporting a dial, statues 
of fish supporting a basin of water, Termes supporting 
a chimney-piece ; for when a stone is used as a sup- 
port, where is the incongruity, it will be said, to cut it 
into the form of an animal? But leaving this doubtful, 
another objection occurs, That such designs must in 
some measure be disagreeable, by the appearance of 
giving pain to a sensitive being. 

It is observed above of gardening, that it contributes 
to rectitude of manners, by inspiring gaiety and be- 
nevolence. I add another observation, That both gar- 
dening and architecture contribute to the same end 
by inspiring a taste for neatness and elegance. In 
Scotland, the regularity and polish even of a turnpike 
road has some influence of this kind upon the poor 
people in the neighborhood. They become fond of 
regularity and neatness ; which is displayed, first upon 
their yards and little inclosures, and next within-doors. 
A taste for regularity and neatness, thus acquired, is 
extended by degrees to dress, and even to behavior and 
manners. The author of a history of Switzerland, 
describing the fierce manners of the plebeians of Berne I 
three or four centuries ago, continually inured to sue- 1 
cess in war, w T hich made them insolently aim at a I 
change of government in order to establish a purel 
democracy, observes, that no circumstance tendedl 
more to sweeten their manners, and to make them! 
fond of peace, than the public buildings carried on byl 
the senate for ornamenting their capital ; particularlj 
a fine town-house, and a magnificent church, which tc 
this day, says our author, stands its ground as one of the 
finest in Europe. 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE, 293 



REVIEW. 

To what are gardening and architecture now improved. 
Does the author propose to treat them as useful or fine arts ? 
What are the two different destinations of gardening and archi- 
tecture ? 
What does this variety of destination bestow on these arts ? 
How do they entertain the mind ? 
What emotions does gardening raise ? 
In what is architecture superior ? — in what inferior to garden- 

Which is superior in grandeur? — in utility ? 

What great advantage does gardening possess ? 

What Ts necessary for producing this effect ? 

To what is a building confined ? 

What is wanted to bring architecture to maturity ? 

How does it differ from gardening, with respect to materials ? 

What is the other thing wanted to briDg architecture to perfec- 
tion ? 

What should be a ruling principle in gardening and architec- 
ture ? 

How is it violated ? 

What bad effect results from superfluity of decoration ? 

What mistake is made in forming plans? 

What is the effect of strict regularity in laying out a large field? 

What is the simplest plan of a garden? — a more complex? — 
the third kind ? — the completest plan ? 

What is important in this plan? 

What emotions should follow each other ? 

Should they be united ? — why not ? 

Give examples. 

What emotions ought to be raised together ? 

What is Kent's method of embellishing a field? 

What is observed of the gardens of Versailles ? 

Where should regularity be studied, and where should it not be 
studied ? 

How should trees be disposed ? 

What is observed of the star form ? 

How should thickets be disposed ? 

What is the rule in laying out a field ? 

What ornaments should be rejected in gardening? 

What sort of imitations are displeasing? 

Give an example. 

With what are the vulgar entertained ? 

What should be avoided in designing a garden ? 

What sort of walks are most agreeable in an embellished field ? 
—why ? 

Why is a straight avenue less agreeable than a winding one? 

Why should a garden on a flat be highly ornamented ? 

What is the advantage of an elevated walk ? 

Why is a Gothic preferable to a Grecian ruin ? 

What kind of fountain is condemned ? 
Z2 



294 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

Is it necessary, in gardening, to oppose relative to intrinsic 
beauty ? 

What is a summer garden ? 

Where is it suitable ? 

Where is a winter garden desirable ? 

What are its requisite properties? 

How may it be made subservient to education ? 

Into what three kinds are buildings and parts of buildings dis- 
tributed ? 

What is required in buildings intended for utility ? 

Where should beauty alone be regarded ? 

Where is the great difficulty of contrivance ? 

Where should regularity prevail? — where utility? 

What is required in the door of a dwelling-house ? — of a palace ? 
—of a church ? 

Whence arises the beauty of a Gothic tower? 

What sort of figure is preferred for a dwelling-house 1f\/\sL& 

What is the form of rooms required by utility ? 

What form is best calculated for receiving light? 

Where should intrinsic beauty be preferred to relative beauty? 

Do the British always suit their dwellings to their climate ? 

What is chiefly necessary in works of art that are intended to 
imitate nature? ^^pU l ^ftf 

How is this done? 

What are chiefly studied in works of art that are original ? 

What is the effect of a well-proportioned room ? — of an ill-pro- 
portioned one?'// 



In what are regularity and proportion, essential ? — why ? 

ule does congruity dictate ? 
Give examples. 



What rule does congruity dictate ? -•< 

Give examples. 

What is required in a Christian church? — in its situation ?- 
why? 

What do columns express ? 

Should the situation of a building regulate its form ? 

Give an example. 

To what is the Gothic form of building suited ? 

Why should the room, which first receives us on entering a 
house, not be large? 

What suit of rooms is proposed for a very large house ? 

What is the inconvenience of a double row of windows in the 
same room ? 

What should be the chief study of the architect ? 

What sort of ornament do private dwellings admit?. — temples, 
triumphal arches, and other buildings intended for show ? 

Where should statues be placed ? 

Why should not vases be placed on the top of a wall ? 

What ornaments did the ancients use for pedestals ? 

What subjects admit the greatest variety in point of taste? 

What were the three Grecian orders of architecture ? 

How are columns distinguished with respect to their destination? 

With respect to destination, what order is classed with the Doric? 
—what with the Corinthian ? 

How should the ornaments of the three orders be contrived ? 



GARDENING AND ARCHITECTURE. 295 

Give examples. 

Who invented the Corinthian capital ? 

From what did he take its form ? /^ . 

What objections are made to it ? 

What rule with respect to buildings is dictated by utility?— what 
by beauty ? — why ? 

What is the great care of the artist? 

What kind of ornaments is most difficult ? 

What is the effect of mixing them with realities ? 

Give examples. 

What is observed of the statue of Moses striking a rock from 
which water actually issues ? 

Why are statues employed for supports disagreeable ? 

How do gardening and architecture contribute to rectitude of 
manners ? 

Give examples. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

Standard of Taste. 

It is a common proverb that there is no disputing 
about taste. One thing at first view is evident, that 
if the proverb holds true with respect to taste in its 
proper meaning, it must hold equally true with respect 
to our other external senses : if the pleasures of the 
palate disdain a comparative trial, and reject all criti- 
cism, the pleasures of touch, of smell, of sound, and 
even of sight, must be equally privileged. At that 
rate, a man is not within the reach of censure, even 
where he prefers the Saracen's Head upon a sign-post 
before the best tablature of Raphael, or a rude Gothic 
tower before the finest Grecian building ; or where he 
prefers an unpleasant smell before that of the most 
odoriferous flow T er, or discords before exquisite har- 
mony. 

If the pleasures of external sense be exempted from 
criticism, why not every one of our pleasures, from 
whatever source derived ? If taste in its proper sense 
cannot be disputed, there is little room for disputing it 
in its figurative sense. The proverb accordingly com- 



296 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

prehends both; and in that large sense may he re- 
solved into the following general proposition,/ That 
with respect to the perceptions of sense, by v T*fhich 
some objects appear agreeable, some disagreeable, 
there is no such a thing as a good or a bad, a right or a 
wrong ; that every man's taste is to himself an ultimate 
standard without appeal ; and consequently that there 
is no ground of censure against any one who prefers 
Blackmore before Homer, selfishness before benevo- 
lence, or cowardice before magnanimity. 

The proverb in the foregoing examples is indeed 
carried very far : it seems difficult, however, to sap 
its foundation, or attack it successfully from any quar- 
ter; every man is equally a judge of what ought to 
be agreeable or disagreeable to himself. Is it not 
whimsical and absurd, to assert, that a man ought not 
to be pleased when he is, or that he ought to be pleased 
when he is not ? 

This reasoning may perplex, but will never afford 
conviction : every one of taste will reject it as false, 
however unqualified to detect the fallacy. Though 
no man of taste will assent to the proverb as holding 
true in every case, no man will affirm that it holds true 
in no case; there are objects that we may like or dis- 
like indifferently, without any imputation upon our 
taste. Were a philosopher to make a scale for human 
pleasures, he would not think of making divisions 
without end: but would rank together pleasures arising 
perhaps from different objects, either as conducing to 
happiness, or differing so imperceptibly as to make a 
separation unnecessary. Nature has taken this course 
as to the generality of mankind. There may be sub- 
divisions without end ; but we are only sensible of the 
grosser divisions, comprehending pleasures equally af- 
fecting: to these the proverb is applicable in the 
strictest sense; for with respect to pleasures of the 
same rank, what ground can there be for preferring 
one before another ? If a preference in fact be given 



I 



STANDARD OF TASTE. 297 

by any individual, it cannot proceed from taste, but 
from custom, imitation, or some peculiarity of mind. 

Nature, in her scale of pleasures, has been sparing 
of divisions; she has wisely and benevolently filled 
every division with many pleasures, that individuals 
may be -contented with their own lot, without envying 
that of others. Many hands must be employed to 
procure us the conveniences of life ; and it is necessa- 
ry that the different branches of business, whether 
more or less agreeable, be filled with hands : a taste 
too refined would obstruct that plan ; for it would 
crowd some employments, leaving others, no less use- 
ful, totally neglected. Fortunately the plurality are 
not delicate in their choice, but fall in readily with the 
occupations, pleasures, food, and company, that fortune 
throws in their w T ay; and if at first there be any dis- 
pleasing circumstance, custom soon makes it easy. 

The proverb will hold true as to the particulars now 
explained ; but when applied in general to every sub- 
ject of taste, the difficulties to be encountered are in- 
superable. We need only to mention the difficulty 
that arises from human nature itself. Do we not talk 
of a good and a bad taste ? — of a right and a wrong 
taste ? — and upon that supposition, do we not censure 
writers, painters, architects, and every one who deals 
in the fine arts ? Are such criticisms absurd, and void 
of common sense? — have the foregoing expressions, 
familiar in all languages and among all people, no 
sort of meaning? This can hardly be : for what is uni- 
versal, must have a foundation in nature. If we can 
reach that foundation, the standard of taste will no 
longer be a secret. 

We have a sense or conviction of a common nature 
in our own species, and in every species of animals : 
and this common nature is a model or standard for 
each individual that belongs to the kind. Hence it is 
a wonder to find an individual deviating from the com- 
mon nature of the species, whether in its internal or 
external construction : a child born with aversion to 



298 ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

its mother's milk, is a wonder, no less than if born with 
out a mouth, or with more than one. This conviction 
of a common nature in every species, paves the way 
for distributing things into genera and species; to which 
we are prone. 

With respect to the common nature oi man in par- 
ticular, we have a conviction that it is invariable not 
less than universal. Nor are we deceived : because, 
giving allowance for the difference of culture and 
gradual refinement of manners, the fact corresponds to 
our conviction. 

We are so constituted, as to conceive this common 
nature to be invariable, perfect or right ; and that in- 
dividuals ought to be made conformable to it. Every 
remarkable deviation from the standard makes an im- 
pression upon us of imperfection, irregularity, or disor- 
der : it is disagreeable, and raises in us a painful emo- 
tion ; monstrous births, exciting the curiosity of a phi- 
losopher, fail not at the same time to excite a sort of 
horror. 

This conviction of a common nature or standard, 
and of its perfection, accounts clearly for that re- 
markable conception we have of a right and a wrong 
sense or taste in morals, and also in the fine arts. A 
man who, avoiding objects generally agreeable, de- 
lights in objects generally disagreeable, is condemned 
as a monster ; we disapprove his taste as bad or wrong 
because we have a clear conception that he deviates 
from the common standard. 

Men are prone to flatter themselves, by taking it 
for granted that their opinions and their taste are in 
all respects conformable to the common standard ; but 
there are exceptions without number, of persons who 
are addicted to gross amusements without having any 
relish for the more elegant pleasures afforded by the 
fine arts; yet these very persons, talking the same 
language with the rest of mankind, pronounce in fa- 
vor of the more elegant pleasures, and invariably ap- 
prove those who have a more refined taste, being 



STANDARD OF TASTE. <S99 

ashamed of their own as low and sensual. No reason 
can be given for this singular impartiality, other than 
the authority of the common standard with respect to 
the dignity of human nature; and from the instances 
now given, we discover that the authority of that 
standard, even upon the most grovelling souls, is so 
vigorous, as to prevail over self-partiality, and make 
them despise their own taste compared with the more 
elevated taste of others. 

Thus, upon a conviction common to the species is 
erected a standard of taste ; which standard, ascer- 
taining what actions are right or wrong, proper or im- 
proper, has enabled moralists to establish rules for our 
conduct, from which no person is permitted to swerve. 
We have the same standard for ascertaining, in all the 
fine arts, what is beautiful or ugly, high or low, proper 
or improper, proportioned or disproportioned. 

With respect to the fine arts, there is less difference 
of taste than is commonly imagined. Nature has 
marked all her works with indelible characters of 
high or low, plain or elegant, strong or weak ; which 
if perceived, are seldom misapprehended: and the 
same marks are equally perceptible in works of art. 
A defective taste is incurable; and it hurts none but 
the possessor, because it carries no authority to impose 
upon others. Differences about objects of taste are 
endless : but they generally concern trifles, or matters 
of equal rank, where preference may be given either 
way w r ith impunity : if, on any occasion, persons differ 
where they ought not, a depraved taste will readily 
be discovered on one or other side, occasioned by imita- 
tion, custom, or corrupted manners, as described above. 
And considering that every individual partakes of a 
common nature, what is there that should occasion any 
wide difference in taste or sentiment ? By the princi- 
ples that constitute the sensitive part of our nature, a. 
wonderful uniformity is preserved in the emotions and 
feelings of the different races of men; the same object 
making upon every person the same impression, the 



SOO ELEMENTS OF CRITICISM. 

same in kind, if not in degree. There have been, as 
above bbserved, aberrations from these principles ; but 
soon or late they prevail, and restore the wanderer to 
the right track. 

In general, every doubt with relation to the com- 
mon sense of man, or standard of taste, may be cleared 
by the same appeal: and to unfold these principles 
has been the declared purpose of the present under- 
taking. 

REVIEW. 

Into what general proposition may we resolve the common 
proverb about taste ? 

By what reasoning is this proposition supported? 

Is the proverb true to a certain extent ? 

What is the advantage of a variety of taste among rnankind ? 

What difficulties arise when we apply the proverb to every sub- 
ject of taste ? 

What is the standard for each individual of a species ? 

What conception do we furm of our common nature ? 

For what does this conviction account? 

How is the decisive authority of this common standard illus- 
trated ? 

Upon what is a standard of taste erected ? 

Is it applied to the fine arts, as well as to morals ? 

Upon what are rules of conduct founded ? 

Why is there not much difference of taste in the fine arts ? 

May a defective taste be cured ? 

What do differences about objects of taste generally concern? 

What preserves uniformity of emotions and feelings among men? 

Do these principles always ultimately prevail? 



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